Don't Ever Change
by Scotland Evander
Summary: Benedict was diverted from London due to snow. Door spoke to a celebrity while covered in grass stains and her dog barked. Incessantly. Pamela got lost in the Underground after a series of unfortunate events. All Tom did was fall asleep on a couch that wasn't his own. These events, though, brought them together. (Real person fic with Cumberbatch and Hiddleston)
1. Brought Together by a Barking Menance

**_Brought Together by a Barking Menace to Society_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOo

_Dorothea_

"BASIL!"

My dog just took off. We were minding our own business under a tree, hiding from the Texas sunshine and she simply decided it'd be a great time to charge off without me.

Dumb dog.

Seriously, my dog takes stupid pills on a regular basis. I love her, don't get me wrong, but she took an extra does of moron this morning. It's the only explanation on why she just took off across the expanse of grass after she had clearly told me through her actions she was too hot to move.

I hate Texas. Espeically in the spring. And summer. And fall. The only time Texas is okay in my books is in the winter, as it's usually not a MILLION degrees. It's just slightly uncomfortable for winter. Take right now. It's the middle of January and it's maybe sixty something. Sixty is not a temp one wants to have in January. Thirty is what you want in January— and that's warm. It's twenty degrees in Anchorage today and I thought, "Ah, heatwave."

I love Alaska. Especially in the winter. And fall, spring. I kind of hate it in the summer because the sun is always out and it's SUPER intense. But, I love winter in general, and Alaskan winters while dark and void of sunshine are COLD. And it's like only abnormally dark in December. And a little in November and January, but February is awesome.

I love cold weather. When it is cold, you bundle in your sweaters, long sleeves, down coats, scarves and mittens. One does not need these in any combination in Texas unless the world is ending and it kind of attempts to snow.

(I've never been in Texas when this has occurred. The coldest it's been is thirty-two degrees and the people of Del Rio were walking around like they thought it was the Arctic. Even today, I've seen more people in North Face coats than I saw in Anchorage when there's seriously brumal temps.)

My dog is not a fan of hot weather. She likes snow, below forty degrees, late winter sunshine and would rather be in purdah.

I guess she forgot she hates hot blacktop, hot Texas sunshine and the fact she's misanthropic.

Where the hell is she going?

"BASIL!"

I think she is deaf. She can lip read and knows things like DINNER, OUTSIDE, TURKEY, FRENCH ROOTS (don't ask), SIT, PAW, and kind of knows ROLL OVER (and by kinda, I mean she usually does a strange combination of sitting, spinning, jumping and rolling over at the same time).

I used to think she knew her name…but, clearly, she doesn't.

"BASIL!"

She is heading right for this guy on a bench. She's zeroed in on this guy for some unknown reason. She hates people.

I guess I ought to stop her.

And she doesn't _hate_ people. Just some people. There is no rhyme or reason to who she likes and doesn't like. I've given up trying to figure it out.

"BASIL! COME HERE!"

Great. I guess I'm going to have to RUN across this great expanse of grass and get her. Not that I'll ever catch up. I cannot run. I should never be seen running. I look like a total freak.

"BASIL! COME HERE!"

Hauling myself to my feet, I start after my dog as she continues her sprint towards the guy on the bench. He still hasn't moved, so I guess he hasn't realized Basil Bea Dog, the Idiot Dog Who Barks Too Much, has decided she fancies him. No clue why. I do not see a dog with the man. Usually that's the only reason she'd take off. She loves other dogs, even though they never seem to return her feelings. I've yet to figure out why other than she's over zealous and does this strange high pitch whining noise whenever she sees another dog. Unless she's inside. Then she barks till your ears bleed.

"BASIL!"

I am running. This is embarrassing. I should have taken her to a freaking dog park instead of where ever we ended up. We're near the airport.

Basil is not keen on dog parks. Last one she was at, she hid under a picnic table digging herself into a hole. Lieterally. She dug a hole and pawed dirt down the front of my sweaty shirt.

We were not friends for the rest of the day.

Oh, no. She knows I'm following her. She's zig zagging now instead of running in a somewhat straight line.

"I am not playing you mutt!" I shout at her as she darts out of my grasp.

I've at least distracted her from whatever she had started to go after when she emancipated herself.

I slide sideways a few times, as I'm wearing flip flops. I didn't think my dog would want to a) walk a lot as it is almost seventy degrees and that's above her threshold of comfort and b) after residing in Alaska for three years I was a little too excited to wear flip flops today. In January!

You do not wear flip flops in Alaska unless you enjoy dirty feet and rocks stuck to the bottoms of your feet. While the good people of Alaska attempt to wash away all the rocks they use instead of salt on the roads during the winter months, the tiny buggers never leave. Anchorage, Alaska is also a seriously feculent when it's not raining and/or snowing. No clue how it is so filthy, as it doesn't look dirty till you look at your feet after wearing flip flops. Luckily, though, it rains a good majority of the summer months— well, till it's time to go to bed and the sun decides it's high time to show itself. Land of the midnight sun, duh.

The point is, it is best to keep your feet inside of shoes at all times, no matter how nice it might look out the window. Unless you want dirty feet and tiny rocks stuck to your soles.

Kind of like you should always have a coat, no matter how warm you think it is out there because it might not be as warm as you think it is.

Or it might start raining.

Or snowing.

I hate Texas. Can I go back to Alaska?

I love rain. I love cold. Hell, I even love the tiny rocks stuck to my feet.

"BASIL! Get your furry butt back here!"

Ooof.

Okay.

If anyone just saw me face-plant on the ground, I will kill them. Or I will just lie here and die quietly of mortification and obloquy.

Worst. Day. Ever.

Basil Bea Dog— also known as Moron, Basildorf, Idiot Dog, and other such names— will not be getting any treats today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.

And we are _not_ friends any longer.

Pushing myself to my elbows, I look around for the stupid mutt. She's decided I'm boring and has gone back to pelting towards the man on the bench, who is no longer staring at the sky and is paying attention to my dumb dog and myself.

I face-plant in the grass again.

Did I mention I hate my dog? I hate my life. I hate Texas. I am so filled with hate at the moment I'm haterific.

Yes, I make up words. It's what I do.

I get to my feet and trot off towards the stupid dog and the man, who has caught her furry butt before she reached the bench. She's barking at him like the moron she is while lying on her back asking for a belly rub. Yes, she is barking at the person she wants attention from and it's not barking in an excited manner. She is simply barking just like she does when a doorbell rings. Or babies cry. Or she hears something that sounds remotely like the FedEx/UPS truck.

Seriously.

They don't even have to stop near our house and she'll bark her tiny head off.

Her head is tiny. Too diminutive for her long legs, longer body and furry tail. She's also a gimp, yet don't tell her that one of her back legs is shorter than the rest. She fails to notice she's a tripod half the time, even while channeling a greyhound.

Yeah, she's a gimp and she can run faster than me and my limbs all operate correctly. She can also run for a lot longer than I can. I'm not made to run.

"Sorry," I apologize before I reach the man who has stopped Basil Bea's Escape from Woman Who Feeds Thee. "She, er, got away. Thought she was content to sit under the tree and recover from heat exhaustion. Guess not."

"She does seem rather warm," a British accent says in response, his hand glossing over Basil's super shiny black fur. "She's quite soft."

What is a British person doing in San Antonio, Texas? Is he lost? Has he lost his mind? And why on earth is he at this park by the airport? It is not a popular park. I'm seriously the only idiot who decided today was a great day to go to the park— well, other than Mr British Dude. Most Texans are huddled under layers of sweaters and coats with the heat on. They think it's cold today.

"Well, black dog, sunshine, equates warm fur," I offer, coming to a stop a few feet from the guy and the barking menace known as my dog.

The man chuckles and looks up at me.

I blink several times behind the safety of my sunglasses. He's got shades on as well, but there is something about the rest of his face that knocks me off kilter— well, further off kilter. It's on the edge of my mind why this guy looks familiar, but I cannot figure it out.

All I really know is my face is channeling a tomato.

"I noticed you and this dog— Basil did you say?"

He said it like Americans say the world, not how British people say it. Bustamundo. Sometime I say Basil name as the British would say it, because I like all things British.

I nod and he goes on, "I noticed you two when I arrived. What breed is…she?"

He sounds confused on the fact her name is Basil and she's a girl.

"Er, she's a mutt," I reply.

Everyone wants to know what breed Basil is. Lots of people think my moronic dog is adorable. I guess she is, as sometimes I think she's the cutest thing on the planet. I love the mutt most days, honest.

Just not today.

"When they found her drooling and scared in a field outside of San Antonio, they thought she might be a doxie/beagle mix, but then she grew. When we got her, the lady said she was just a beagle mix. Then she grew. Multiple times. Now we don't know."

The man looks back at the dog, who is still on her back, long legs straight up in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth between random barking outbursts.

"Ah. I can see a little beagle in the ears," he admits. "Does she grow often?"

"Yes," I grouse. "She keeps getting longer. And taller. She doesn't seem to get fatter, just longer and taller. And I swear her head is shrinking."

The man laughs, petting the dog's belly while she's still barking at him.

That laugh sounds oddly familiar. His voice sounds familiar. But, I know it's not _him_. He wouldn't be in San Antonio talking to my dog. No, I'd be able to tell _him_ anywhere.

I wish my brain would work so I could figure out if I ought to know the man or I'm hallucinating.

At least I'm ninety-nine point nine percent positive this man is not Tom Hiddleston. (Insert ode to Hiddleston's mad acting skills here along with dramatic swoony noise that someone my age should not be making, but is perfectly able to make within the confines of her own head.)

_Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark_.

It's like a bad recorded loop, my idiot dog's barking. I ought to record it and post it on the internet along with a dumb video and share my pain.

"She barks a lot."

"I noticed."

"I'm so sorry. Basil, shut up."

"Basil's an interesting name," the man comments, slowly standing up. He brushes his hands together, sending fur off into the air.

Shedding wonder— that is my dog. Wanna see my dog loose ten pounds— brush her.

Whoa. He's tall.

"Yeah…"

"Any reason for it?"

"It was…well, long story short it was either name the dog Basil or the first female child," I inform him, knowing he likely didn't want to hear the entire story on how the dog wound up named Basil. (Honestly, it's long and includes the name Merv.)

The man appears to be confused. Basil rolls back onto her uneven legs and decides it's really a tripod kind of a day, so she stands there on her three good legs with the back good leg turned in at an odd angle that looks painful and the shorter one dangling above the ground and barks at the man who is no longer petting her.

"Basil, sit down and shut up."

She sits down, but continues barking. I bend over and grab her lightly around the mouth and clamp her jaw shut.

"We get the point. You can bark. Parade's tomorrow."

Basil continues her attempts to bark with her jaw shut.

"What do you theorize she's composed of?" the man asks.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," I say, letting her mouth go. She goes back to barking and stands up, now standing on all four legs, which makes her lopsided in the back. "Beagle, terrier of some sort, whippet, greyhound, moron…"

"I don't believe I'm familiar with the breed of moron," he laughs.

"Well, it's a breed all her own then, isn't it, Basil?" I ask the barking dog, who glares at me for some reason and attempts to back away. I suddenly realize I am not holding her leash.

Crap.

Oh. The guy is standing on her leash.

Basil gives up her attempts to escape when she realizes the guy is standing on her leash and collapses on the ground. She's given up completely.

"Well, uh, thanks for stopping her," I say. "While the vet insists her hearing is fine, I think she is hard of hearing."

The man snorts. "I gathered that. Or she was simply focused on whatever she thought she was chasing."

"Sure. She tried to chase a chipmunk once," I say, looking down at the dog as she pants, her legs stuck straight out and stiff. She always lays like this, so it's nothing new. "It didn't go well for her. She was always three steps behind the little bugger." The man chuckles again. "Well, I guess we'll head home. Thanks for stopping her."

I bend over and the guy lifts his foot (he's shoes are huge). I grab the leash, warp it around my wrist and stand up.

"My pleasure," he says, smiling at me as I peer up at him. "I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it to you."

Where do I know this guy from? It's more than likely best I not figure it out, as then I'll become a babbling moron. Or more likely, a non-babbling moron who is unable to form a sentence and will simply channel a tomato.

I cannot meet someone I know looking as I do now, covered grass stains. And likely red faced from my embarrassment.

I'm a hot mess.

"I'm Ben," he announces, extending a huge hand.

My god. I thought my husband was tall and had large hands. This guy's hands dwarf mine completely.

"Door," I reply.

His handshake is firm and his hands aren't overly sweaty.

"Your name is Door?"

"Yes. Kind of. It's actually Dorothea. I prefer Door. Or Cricket," I admit. I laugh a bit nervously. He is staring at me, that odd shaped mouth of his twitching. I square my shoulders and add, "I assume your parents didn't name you Ben, did they?"

"Er, no. I can't say they did," he admits, running a hand through his reddish brown hair. It's unruly and, like most hair in Texas, it's huge. It's impossible not to have huge hair in Texas. My hair is out of control since we've gotten back to Texas. After three years of flat, limp hair, I almost forgot I actually have wavy hair.

"Well, then," I say when he says no more. I then laugh.

Luckily, he joins in.

I wait for him to say _see ya later_ and walk off back to his bench, but he is still standing here next to me and my idiot dog, who is still lying on the ground like a dead dog.

She's not dead. She's panting too loudly to be dead. (The sunbathing is doing her in. She used to sit inside our house in Alaska when the sun was pouring in the windows panting up a storm, refusing to move even though she was hot. The funniest was when she'd do it in the backyard— when it was filled with snow.)

"But, Cricket?" he inquires, and pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.

Any words I might have said in response die a painful death in my throat.

OMG.

I think I am going to drop dead, pick myself up, get into my car, drive it off a bridge, die again, get out of the ditch, go home, scream and finally ram my head into the wall a few hundred times.

I've been talking to Benedict Cumberbatch.

I am covered in dirt, grass stains and I fell flat on my face in front of him.

My dog barked at him. Incessantly.

Can I tell you again how much I hate Texas? Only in Texas would I be less than perfect when I meet a celebrity.

At least it _wasn't_ Tom Hiddleston. Then, I'd really have to walk off and live in a ditch for the rest of my life. (Tom Hiddleston has been my all time favorite actor since I saw in him _Gathering Storm_ in 2002. I _knew_ he was going places. I was right!)

But, enough of that. Must go die now.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

For a spilt second, I think I've lost her. I had a feeling she had not been able to pin point where she knew me from. I've yet to dye my hair back to Sherlock's darkness, but it's getting longer than I care for— as I think Sherlock's hair makes me look a bit feminine.

No one agrees with this statement.

I forgot for a moment, though, she hadn't placed me when I pushed the sunglasses I had been wearing off my face in order to see her better. I've been wearing these blasted things for the past twelve hours and find them somewhat maddening. LA was sunny, the plane was sunny, this city in Texas is sunny. I believe all of America might be sunny except where I want to go.

That part is covered in storms planes are unable to fly in, hence why I am here in Texas of all places rather than New York or Chicago.

It's snowing. Or is going to be soon. New York's flights were all cancelled preemptively after the storm buried Chicago. I was diverted to Texas due to the snow. I'm not sure why the plane was unable to fly around the snowstorm, as it was a direct flight from LA to London, but who am I to question the FAA gods?

I give her a sheepish look as she stares at me with an expression that clearly states she is thinking _fuck my life_.

"I take it you know me," I say, hoping to get some sort of reaction. Hopefully, not a screaming one. I get those sometimes, but most times the people that approach me behave somewhat normally.

Though, she might hate my work. Or might not like me in general— one of those people who thinks my acting is shoddy and doesn't get why other people find me attractive.

Not that I get it, really. I've been staring at this face for over thirty-six years and I don't understand what they all see that's any different than it was before I…blew up, as some say.

I am still simply me.

I still am not too crazy of the reflection in the mirror. It's just me. Not George Clooney or Brad Pitt.

"Oh, yeah," Door says, twisting a ring on her left hand with her left thumb.

How did I miss that before?

Especially in the sunlight, the diamonds of the ring catch the light easily. And she is rather frigidity. She hasn't been still since I spotted her when I arrived.

"Well, I best not keep you. You seem to be melting," I joke, scratching my head. Her face is quite red. It's quite warm. Not as warm as LA during the Emmy's, but still rather uncomfortable for January.

Who would have thought it'd be January and I'd be melting in Texas?

I shouldn't be in Texas. If this was a perfect world, I'd be on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean rather than standing in a park in Texas.

I'm only at the park because I couldn't stand to be in the airport any longer and the next flight scheduled to London isn't until seven this evening.

If it even leaves.

The woman/girl turns even redder— if possible. It is easy to tell she's red due to embarrassment rather than a sun burn as before when she was under the tree I entertained the idea that she was a vampire. She is very pale. Most people around here gallivant around various shades of brown or orange. I don't think I've seen someone so pale since I left England. And I don't think I've met an American who was pale. They all tend to be some shade of tan. Even the so called pale ones.

I think she might be more pale than I am.

"Oh, god," she breathes, tearing her eyes off of me. "I know. I hate it here."

"Yes, I cannot say I favor this weather. Where are you originally from?"

She no longer appears as if she wishes she were dead and isn't in a hurry to leave. She is just standing in front of me, looking a little lost.

"Alaska."

I blink at her.

"I mean, I'm Alaskan at the moment," she says, shaking her head. "I mean, well, I'm actually from Chicagoland."

I knit my brows together.

"God, I wish I was from Alaska. Everyone is from Chicagoland."

"I'm not."

She forces out a laugh, shaking her head. "Well, yeah."

"So, you're not Alaskan, but you're from…the land of Chicago?"

"Chicagoland— anything that is not the actual city of Chicago but is within a two hour drive of the city."

"Ah. Like…suburbs?"

"Exactly," she agrees. "My husband gets mad when I tell people I'm from Chicago, even though if I told you I was from Villa Park, you'd have no idea where that was."

"Quite true," I agree. "So, what brings you to Texas?"

"Military," she replies. "Just here, again, for a few months before going back to the middle of nowhere."

She scowls down at the dog, who is still lying on her side panting up a storm.

"Back to the start," she mutters.

"What?"

"Oh, where we began this whole journey," Door says, looking up and flapping her free hand. "A tiny, dirt hole town on the boarder. Top attraction Walmart. Seriously. I had a seventh grade student ask me why I hated the town so much and I just kinda gave her a look and she said, 'We've got a Walmart!' like it was the creme de la creme! Walmart! I grew up in a town with Walmarts, Targets, Sam's Clubs, Kohls, Best Buys, Hobby Lobbys, and a MALL with ACUTAL stores in it!"

This all comes out in a voice that is becoming more aggravated by the second.

"So, in a city in other words," I surmise. "Not a quaint village."

"Correct. I'm a city girl. Spoiled the last three years by living in an actual city. With weather that didn't try to kill me," Door grumbles, sighing deeply.

"It gets quite cold in Alaska, doesn't it? Like below…" I fish around for the correct temperature conversion. Math was not my strong suit.

"Oh, it gets cold," she agrees. "But I like cold. I like the snow. I love dressing in layers. The summers there aren't so bad. It usually doesn't get above seventy…air wise. It feels hotter in the sun, as the sun is super intense…there is no a/c in Alaska, so it tends to get a wee bit hot inside when you get a super sunny day. Well, there might be a/c in Fairbanks. It gets kind hot in the interior. I lived in Anchorage."

"Did you enjoy it? Anchorage, I mean."

"Yeah. It's like the perfect place for me. It, if you can believe this, reminded me of London."

"Really?"

"Yeah. In the summer the weather is very similar to London. Well, the winters were vastly different, but I plotted the weather between the two, and besides the super cold months in Anchorage, they had very similar weather. I loved London, though it doesn't have mountains. Man, I miss the mountains. It was like no matter where you looked in Anchorage, you had a great view. Even from our house in the city, you always had a view of the mountains."

Door sighs wistfully.

"Sounds lovely. I've never been," I admit. "They don't usually divert to Anchorage."

"Oh. OH!" she says, looking back at me. I imagine behind her sunglasses her eyes are going large. "The huge snow storm. My brother in Chicago told me it's so bad he's getting sent home. I guess you're…oh, you're trying to get back to London."

I nod. "Yes. A few things to get done before I begin filming my next project."

She nods, though, I get the feeling she doesn't know what my next project is.

"Well, I think my dog might die."

And clearly doesn't care.

"While she's originally from here, she don't like it here," Door says, fondly smiling at the dog. "She was like a different dog after we got her out of the heat. And the first time she saw snow…we were all like how did this dog end up in Texas of all places? She loves winter. And snow. Poor thing."

She jerks the leash in her hands, but the dog doesn't move.

"Come on, Basil. Up and at 'em," she demands.

The dog refuses to move.

Door sighs deeply. "Please don't make me carry you. Up."

The dog for some reason rolls over.

Door plants her face into her free hand.

"Not roll over, stand _up_."

The dog rolls over again.

"French roots?" she asks in a really bad French accent.

For a moment I think she might have lost her mind, but the dog shoots to her feet and leaps around, barking in an excited manner.

"I really wish I knew what you thought I meant when I say that," she grumbles. "Come on. Let's go for a ride."

The dog stops leaping around and sits down.

"Come on."

The dog plants herself.

Door sighs deeply. Before I can offer to carry the dog, she scoops the lanky thing up into her arms. The dog looks even stranger and longer in Door's arms. And awkward. Oh, and the dog doesn't look like she enjoys being carried. Her floppy ears are plastered to the side of her head. She looks utterly pathetic.

"Well, it was nice to meet you," Door says, attempting to smile. "Uh, good luck on…whatever you're doing next. I can't wait to see _Star Trek_."

I blink. "Not _Sherlock_?"

"Oh, I don't know when that's coming out. I know when _Star Trek _is coming out. I was excited about it before I knew you were in it, though, if I'm honest. I'm a total geek. And by that I mean, I was excited for the sequel after seeing the first one. Before you were cast. Before I really…oh, no. I guess I knew who you were."

"You did? Didn't the first film come out before _Sherlock_?"

"Oh, I've known who you were since you popped up on Masterpiece Theater," Door says, looking a tad embarrassed. "I'm totally obsessed with all programs on there. I've got this…well, weird talent for picking out the next big thing."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Granted, I pegged Hiddleston from something on HBO, but after I saw you in _To the Ends of the Earth _I had a feeling you'd go places_." _

She looks mortified she just admitted that to me. I smile and laugh.

"I'm flattered."

"Well, uh, good. Wouldn't want to embarrass you. I'm a total geek."

"Aren't we all?"

She shifts the dog in her arms and asks, "Oh, I don't know, are we?"

"I say we are."

"Well, okay."

She begins to walk towards the parking lot. I pull out my phone, glancing at the time. It's three. I have several hours before my flight boards (if it boards).

"Wait," I call out to her before she gets too far.

She stops, looking up at me in question.

I feel like an idiot, but something is telling me to keep in contact. I don't want to give her my number, nor do I want to give her my personal email. I don't have Twitter or anything because I honestly do not have time, so I'm at a loss.

"Do you have Twitter?"

She stares at me, looking confused.

"I do."

"Your name on there?"

"Cricket Heidi," she replies. "Pen name."

"You're a writer?"

"No. Handbag designer. I thought Dorothea Judoc-Abercombie sounded kind of lame for a label."

"You design handbags?"

"Yup. Cricket Heidi Designs. Google me."

She gives me a rather breathtaking smile, salutes me with two fingers and turns back around, adjusting the dog again. I wait till she's no longer in sight before I open up the web on my phone and do exactly as she suggested.

A few minutes later, I'm staring at an empty Etsy shop. I don't know anything about Etsy, so I go back to Google and look at the Facebook page. The Facebook page at least lets me see the handbags she designs. I don't know anything about handbags, so I can't say much other than they look nice. Colorful. Unique. Kind of loud.

Google also leads me to her blog, which she hasn't updated in a few months, likely before she moved from Alaska. Some of it focuses on her handbag line— designing it, making it, the hazards of running it herself. However, most of the posts are about her life. They are essays— her husband losing his wedding ring in a creek while hiking, how she found Harry Potter on the floor (the book, not the actual wizard), a few stories about her dog and the snow, her adventure in camping in the winter in the backwoods of Alaska, and a few heartfelt essays on her past.

The story of how she managed to burn herself multiple times while doing ordinary things is rather hilarious. I've never known someone to burn their stomach whilst ironing a shirt. Granted, most people wouldn't wear the shirt whilst ironing.

She could be a writer if handbag designing failed her.

By the time I call a cab to get back to the airport, I have a desperate need to go to Alaska. Also, if I end up trapped in Texas for the night, at least I have good reading material. She's been blogging for four years and I've only read the last two years.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	2. Where Penguins Leap Off the Edge

**_Where Penguins Leap Off the Edge_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I bang my head against the steering wheel. Several times.

Sitting up straight, I take a deep breath and start the car. I turn the a/c on high and as cold as it'll go. Basil Bea is collapsed somewhere in the back. I can't see her, as she's down for the count. Least she won't be whining and crying the entire ride back to the apartment like she was on the ride to the park. The dog cannot handle being in the car. It's like too much for the poor thing.

Gripping the steering wheel, I put the SUV into reverse and back out.

"You cannot hyperventilate at the moment. You have to drive home," I inform myself. "And you know how much you simply adore driving through the streets of San Antonio."

I hate the streets of San Antonio.

Actually, I hate the interstates/highways of San Antonio. The actual roads are perfectly fine, as long as they are not interstates/highways. I don't understand the whole interstate/highway system here. They are obsessed with access roads. They don't have on ramps or off ramps like one is used to with cloverleaves. Instead they have butt load of access roads and whoop-arounds. (Also known as roads made purely for u-turns under the interstate.)

And everything is located around the intestates.

And the access roads…oh, the access roads. How I hate access roads, let me count the ways.

Give me some nice suburban streets that require no merging. Why?

No one knows how to merge.

Especially here.

I learned to drive on the mean streets of Chicagoland. I know how to merge, man. I know how to use an interstate and merge lane.

In Anchorage, they never made the merge lanes long enough to actually merge (thus no one knew how to merge), but at least they knew how to make a cloverleaf.

In San Antonio, they want you to merge, get off and about a million other things the minute you get onto the interstate. And everyone is on and off, on and off.

I hate Texas. I am simply not designed to be in Texas. Too hot, roads too crazy, hair too big, dog too mental.

I steer the car out of the parking lot and onto the road, mentally trying to remember how I got here in the first place. I've made it my goal to get everywhere here by avoiding the interstates. I can't always avoid the stupid access roads, but I've made it an art to not get on the actual interstate.

Okay, so sometimes I get lost, but I always wind up where I wanted to be in the first place. And I do it without the aid of Siri or GPS. (I hate Siri. We do not get along. Also talking at my phone freaks me out. Plus, she doesn't know that Basil is a dog. And she can't pronounce "basil" right. Also, my phone is named Sherlock and he's a boy, not a girl.)

OMG. I named my phone Sherlock.

OMG. I met Benedict Cumberbatch today.

"Drive, Dorothea. Drive."

* * *

I make it home without getting on any interstates and I only got lost once. Granted, by the time I get home, I have to leave to head to the base to retrieve my husband.

Unfortunately, I have not calmed down.

"I MET BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH TODAY!" I yell the moment my husband gets into the overly air conditioned car.

Jason stares at me blankly for a long beat, having no idea who the hell I'm talking about. Out of all the actors I troll after, the only one he remembers is Tom Hiddleston. And he doesn't remember his name. He usually refers to Hiddleston as That Other Guy You Love.

I do not love Hiddleston. I appreciate his acting skills. That is ALL.

Instead of reacting past staring at me blankly, Jason then turns the a/c off and opens the window. It's only seventy degrees. To Jason, it is not hot enough for a/c.

He did not spend enough time in Anchorage while we were there. He was always off in tropical regions during the worst of the cold spells. He's not hardy like me.

"How can you NOT know who I'm talking about! We only spent the entire trip from Anchorage to San Antonio listening to _Cabin Pressure_!"

He blinks at me. Slowly.

"Martin? You met Martin today?" he finally asks in his slow speaking manner. He's from Indiana and has the oddest accent. No one in his family sounds any different than me— that bland Midwestern accent— but Jason has always had this odd cadence to his voice that makes people think he's from Texas.

He does not sound like he is from Texas.

He does have an accent.

It's one of the reasons I liked him.

When he strung together more than five words.

"Yeah! Your stupid dog ran right at him," I inform him, putting the SUV into reverse. "I found a new way home!"

"From?"

"The base. I used it to get here from the one we used this morning," I say cheerily. "And I took Idiot Dog to the park. Near the airport. The one Rose and Jack showed us when we all were here last time."

Jason hums, but doesn't reply.

He smells like the Sim (short for simulator, what most pilots fly instead of planes). I'm not sure why, but the Sim smells like the tiny trainer plane he's re-learning to fly and it's not a pleasant scent. A little better than how a C-17 smells. I'm not sure what it is about the C-17 (no one pukes on a regular basis in a C-17), but it reeks. So does the trainer plane. Mostly because people puke in it on a regular basis. Pulling Gs and all. Or something. I'm not a pilot.

"I told him to Google me," I go on, heading off base.

"Do you know how to get off base? How did you get here?" Jason asks, not replying to me. "Did you get lost?"

"No. I followed the school bus till I saw the tennis courts. Then I kinda guessed," I reply.

I will never be able to find my way around the base, as it was built by someone on drugs. Or someone who thought the layout of Washington DC made sense. At least all the buildings don't look exactly the same like they do on every other air base I've ever been on. They are all still painted the same shade of bland brown (my mom jokes they must have gotten a discount on desert sand brown) but they look different from one another.

Jason hums again. "So, you told Martin What's His Face to Google you? You know when you do that, nothing really shows up about you."

"There's that picture of me from that stupid Econ fair I went to when I was in college," I remind him.

"They spelled your name wrong. And you got married," Jason reminds me.

"I gave him my other name."

"Fake name."

"My internet name."

"Fake name."

"I hate my name."

"You do not."

"Fine. I don't."

Jason hums again.

"Do you think he'll Google me?"

I can't really see Jason as I am driving, but I know what look he's giving me right now. It's the Why-Are-You-Asking-Me-This look.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Why would a big, old, busy, famous actor Google me? Hilarious right? Oh, god. I totally face-planted before I met him. I had grass stains on my knees and shirt. Don't get me started on the melting makeup."

"Made a great first impression," Jason offers.

"Of course I did. It's what I do."

"Besides making up your own words," Jason reminds me.

"Totalishous," I proclaim.

Jason hums again, twirling his hat in his hands. "Where are you going?"

"This way!" I happily sing. "I missed this turn this morning, but I took that turn you mentioned this afternoon and avoided all those stupid left hand turns and going over the train tracks down there with the light."

Jason hums.

Jason hums a lot. It's just a bland note, the same note and it's usually short. He hums instead of agreeing with an actual word.

"You know," I start as I also try to manage my speed.

The roads here go from twenty-five to forty-five to thirty and then fifty-five. It's so confusing. I've come to realize that Anchorage has somewhat fast speed limits, especially for a city. Most roads I tended to use made one drive at least forty. The road I lived on, a nice suburban street, the limit was thirty.

"I know what?" Jason prompts.

"You know," I begin again, "it'd be awesome if he did Google me and decide I was interesting and attempted to keep in contact. I'd have a famous friend!"

"You'd have a friend," Jason says, frowning as I roll the window up and turn on the a/c.

"It's bloody hot."

Jason sighs deeply, then hums.

"It is seventy degrees! It's January!"

The Hum again.

We fall silent as I wind my way through the back roads of San Antonio. For a major city, there are a lot of country-like roads around here. The suburban sprawl hasn't gotten out to the outer reaches of the city, I guess. It's working on it. The area we live in is newly building itself up.

"What's for dinner?"

"Food?"

Jason hums and pulls out his own cell phone. He pokes around for a moment before sighing and pocketing the phone.

"Chicken and rice?"

"Sounds good. You needed your phone for that?" I tease.

"No. Someone texted me," Jason replies.

I don't ask. People are always texting Jason. He's social and popular— even if he claims he hates people. And that he's not social.

He's a freaking social butterfly. Why he married me, the well dressed hermit, is a mystery to me.

I pull up to the gate for the apartment complex and hit the button at the same time the theme song for _Sherlock_ (the TV show) blasts through the car's speakers extra loudly, meaning I've got a text.

Jason makes a noise and tries to figure out how to shut my phone up. While we have the same phone, I've got the newest model and he's got an older one. While the actual phone has not changed much, my iPhone confuses my poor husband.

"Just unplug it from the car," I tell him.

He does and reads the text. Instead of reading it out loud to me, he snickers.

"What?"

"You've blown up Twitter," Jason snickers.

"Huh?"

The 4Runner serves a bit and Jason shouts, "Drive! Drive! No running into things!"

He's been annoying like this since I accidentally drove our old car into my parents' garage. A week before he told me we were selling it to buy the stupid SUV I'm currently driving (we drove to Alaska, we needed the SUV's storage, four wheel drive and ground clearance). I did not mean to drive the s40 into the garage. It's not my fault my parents' driveway is crooked and it is difficult to pull into. It's not my fault the stupid car needed new windshield wipers and the only place you can get them was the Volvo dealer and I didn't want to go to the dealer. It is not my fault none of the wipers I bought that morning fit the dumb car. It's not my fault I was in a bad mood and it was raining. It was not my fault we bought a Volvo. It was not my fault Jason ignored me when I suggested we get a Subaru because we MIGHT need all wheel drive at our next base.

Lesson: don't drive mad into my parents' garage. You'll dent the car, scrape paint off the garage and never live it down.

Also, LISTEN to your WIFE when she says you might need all wheel drive so four months later you're not buying another new car when you move from one extreme to the other.

"Fine!" I shout.

I concentrate on driving till I pull into the covered parking spot and turn off the stupid 4Runner. Jason grabs his backpack and hops out of the car. I gather up my purse and look for my phone.

"Do you have my phone!"

Jason doesn't answer. He slams the door.

Hoping he's got my phone, I tumble out of the car and hurry up the stairs. Jason is standing by the door, waiting for me to unlock it with the odd thing this place calls a key. Seriously, it's five kinds of strange. It's a piece of plastic with a metal disk at the end and you scan it to open the lock.

Totally high tech and ood.

Basil the Idiot is barking even before we open the door, joining the chorus of other barking dogs that live in our building.

"I swear she's going to get us kicked out," Jason grumps, heading into the bedroom where Basil the Moron is locked up on her crate.

She'd be in there even if I didn't lock her up. For the first two years we lived in Alaska, I didn't lock her up and nine out of ten times she was in her crate when I got home. We started locking her up again because she's a barking menace to society. Or it was simply she barked her little head off at our neighbors she decided she hated with a flaming passion. We never did figure out why…all we know is she hated them and we got a notice for a barking menace. (She so did not bark more than any other dog in the neighborhood.)

After Basil the Shedding Wonder stops barking and dancing in circles (fur flying everywhere) around Jason, I ask, "So, what was this about me blowing up Twitter?"

Jason extends the phone to me and I find my brother texted me.

_Since when are you friends with some British guy? You're blowing up Twitter according to Jen._

"Huh?" I ask. Why is Jen, my brother not girlfriend, trolling me online?

Trolling. Such a funny word. I also get that song from the VW commercial in my head that's about rolling whenever I think about trolling.

I tap to the Twitter app I use and wait for it to load. It chirps at me as the tweets begin to post. I notice there are a lot of tweets at me.

No one usually tweets at me.

Mostly because I still don't get Twitter. It's been three years and I still don't really get it. I tweet, yeah, but I never tweet to people, I've never had a conversation with anyone and I don't DM people unless they DM with a question. And that has only happened once. I've had a few people tweet at me, usually after they follow me and see something and they respond and I freak out because I have no idea what to say to them.

I blink a few times. Most of the timeline is filled with people re-tweeting a tweet with my name in it.

What the hell?

Why is Mark Gatiss tweeting about me in the first place?

I hit the link in the tweet.

My world goes very tiny and I drop the phone.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Several people are staring at me, but I do not care in all honesty. I'm too amused by the entry of Door's blog I've just read.

I glance at my watch and debate on if it's too late to text London. Deciding it's not, I scroll through my contacts and call up Mark's number. I paste the link and send a text asking if we could use penguins diving off an iceberg instead of saying Sherlock's mind is a hard drive in the next season.

I move onto the next blog entry. I still have at least two hours till my flight leaves (if it leaves) and I've only been back at the airport for about an hour. I'm pretty sure several people have all ready snapped photos of me, due to the fact I keep chuckling rather loudly.

I ought to stop.

I don't think I can.

My phone beeps.

_Penguins, Benedict? _

**_Yes. Did you read it?_**

_I did. Highly amusing. How on earth did you find this?_

**_I Goggled Cricket Heidi._**

The phone falls silent and I go back to the blog. The next entry is about the dog. There are quite a few stories about Basil Bea Dog. I like the full name.

I read through the adventure the dog had going to a park in Anchorage. The entry ends with an exploding mouthful of dog food all over the kitchen floor. Oddly, I can picture the strange looking dog behaving in this manner and food rolling all over the place at the sight of a more savory bite of people food.

The phone beeps again.

_Why did you Google Cricket Heidi?_

**_I met her._**

_You met a handbag designer on the plane to London?_

**_I'm in Texas._**

_You met her in Texas? Did she get lost?_

**_No. I believe they recently moved._**

_She is on Twitter. I think I'll give her a boost._

I'm about to point out her shop is empty when I change my mind. I have no idea what Mark exactly means by giving her boost, but if she gets more traffic to her blog, then when she does start selling handbags again, it'll be beneficial.

I go back to reading.

* * *

Twenty-four hours after I was baking to death in Texas, I am freezing cold and wet in London.

But, I'm in London.

I have a day before I have to get on yet another plane and head off to continue filming for _The Fifth Estate. _Closing my eyes, I step outside the airport and suck in the polluted air of London. Reopening my eyes, I sigh tiredly and head for the car my PA assured me was waiting.

Luckily the car is waiting and I can go home and collapse in bed. My bed.

My flight to Berlin is early in the morning and luckily not as long as the flight from America.

I should have just flown my arse to Berlin instead of London.

* * *

Berlin is cold.

For some reason, I keep thinking of Alaska. Berlin doesn't look like the photos of Alaska Door posted on her blog. Iceland could work, but not Berlin.

Why do I keep thinking about Alaska? I do not have time to think about Alaska.

"Hey, Ben, did you see this?"

I turn to find the makeup artist holding an iPad, tapping it with her index finger while somehow managing to hold the powder brush still. I'm sure there is makeup all over that iPad— between her fingers and the fact she's scrolling through something with the brush still in her hand.

"See what?"

She looks up at me, frowns, then powders my nose of all things.

"Those Sherlock fans are sure strange. Have you seen this yet?" she asks, turning the iPad towards me. Once she's handed over the rather dirty thing, she begins to dig around in the belt she's wearing for something else to attack my face with. I throw the white blonde hair of the wig I'm wearing out of my face and attempt to see what she's trying to show me on the smudged up screen.

I mostly see finger prints.

"What's the deal with the penguins?" she asks, tilting my head back so she can apply a few more touch ups while the director is distracted.

"What penguins?"

"I know those Sherlockians are strange and are kind of going whacko since it's been almost three years since the last season and you jumped off a roof, but I really don't get the penguins. Less than I get the otter and hedgehog thing. I mean, I don't think you look like an otter."

"Thanks," I say dryly.

She stops attacking me with a brush and gets a sponge out from somewhere and starts dabbing my forehead. I hold the iPad in front of my face and angle it, finally making out an illustration of what looks like Sherlock's head in silhouette. There is an iceberg in his head filled with cartoon penguins and a few are falling out of his head.

"Weird, huh?"

"Yes," I slowly say, thinking Mark is behind this.

The thing with _Sherlock_ fans is that they will take the strangest thing and run with it. They've clearly taken whatever Mark said about the blog post I sent him and turned it into this image.

"Does it move?" I ask.

"Yeah. The penguins fall off," she laughs. "Okay, you're done. Gimme."

I had her the iPad back, shake my head and get back into character.

* * *

After we wrap up for the day, I collapse on my bed in the hotel room, dragging my laptop over to me. Perching it on my stomach, I log into my email and notice a few family and friends have forwarded the newest odd ball thing the Sherlock fans have come up with. I always look, as the fans of the show are some of the strangest and brightest followers. And…they are a very unique bunch.

I find an email from Martin and open it first.

_I always knew your head was filled with birds._

I hit the link and it takes me to the Tumblr page with a moving image thingy. It looks better on my finger print free computer screen. I can actually appreciate it.

I laugh out loud as the penguins for the solar system, Lestrade's first name, the prime minister, One Direction and a few other well known facts fall out of Sherlock's head and are replaced by seemingly useless information— stuff only Sherlock would bother to remember. There is a link back to Door's blog, which I hit before I write the response to Martin. I haven't actually checked up on the blog since I got back to London, as I've been a bit busy.

I chuckle as I read the most recent post

**AHHHHH! *Ducks for cover as life blows up in my face***

**25 January 2013**

**I'm Twitter famous! And I inspired a Sherlock thing-a-ma-bob. Who knew the fact some random pilot guy said pilots heads were filled with penguins would be my crowning glory?**

***Puts on Crown of Glory***

**New readers, 'allo! See entry below for That Time When Basil the Shedding Menace Barked at Benedict Cumberbatch. **

**The old five, Look! I updated!**

**For those asking about the handbag line, I've set the shop up to take custom orders. If you live in TX, might take some time, as I gotta wait till I process the paperwork right. Blasted paperwork…but, go in, order one and it'll be a few days before I ship it out. (Well, unless I get swamped…I'm assuming demand will dwindle…how many of y'all need a purse?) I'd sell you the ones I already made, only they are sitting in storage somewhere down the road. I only have my sewing machine with me due to the fact I do not trust the movers to move it from Alaska in once piece. **

**And yet I let them take my scrapbooks again…after they got all wet last time. **

**I promise to get writing some witty, amusing, random personal essays along with churning out purses. However, right now I have to watch _The Avengers_. Why? Because I finally sent back that True Blood disk I've had since September and transported from Alaska to Texas. And yes, Mom, I didn't see it in the theater because Pilot Boy was…somewhere not Alaska. He saw it without me and, gasp, said it sucked.**

**I do no believe him. Hiddleston is in that movie. It cannot suck.**

***Music: "Roll With It," Oasis **

***Mood: Overwhelmed, y'all. But I got a crown. *Adjusts Crown of Glory***

I eye the entry about me and debate on reading it now or later. Or not at all. Thinking it might be a laugh to see how she took the whole thing, I scroll down to the next entry titled: Live From Texas, It's Cricket Heidi!

By the time I finish, my side hurts from laughing.

* * *

I am sure no matter where you spend the month of February, if you are in the Northern Hemisphere, it's just dreadful.

I am sitting in my trailer, waiting between takes for the horrible drizzle/mist/rain to stop so we can get an exterior shot. I yank out my mobile and scroll through my texts. I have a few texts from my agent, PA, and directors I'm in contact with. Nothing all that important. I'm about to close the text inbox, when I notice a text from Tom Hiddleston.

Door is a huge Tom Hiddleston fan. I'd say she's obsessed, but I've met obsessed fans and she's not actually obsessed with him as some fangirls. She is fixated on his career, not him. She doesn't care about how he looks, what he says during interviews, or his addiction to pudding. She doesn't even care he's _nice_. She is single-mindedly fixed upon his acting. And has been since 2002 (I learned this when I found the blog entry for her review on _Thor_).

I haven't spoken to Tom or seen him in quite awhile. We travel in similar circles, but our projects keep us out of London as of recent.

**_When are you going to be back in town? Didn't see you at the Globes…_**

Was Tom at the Globes?

_Were you there? I'll be in town starting in March. _

I don't think he was at the Globes. If he was, he failed to show up at the BFTA Tea Party.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I push those thoughts out of my head and go back to my phone. I exit the text app and open up my emails. I should check them on my laptop, but I honestly do not want to move from where I've fallen down on the couch.

Finding nothing of interest, I open a new tab and go to my newest guilty pleasure: Door's blog. She hasn't updated her actual blog, but her Twitter feed has updated often in the past few weeks. Her recent tweets show up on the side of her blog. There's a link to the actual page. Curiosity getting the best of me, I head to her Twitter page.

_CricketHiedi: Sitting on the floor, surrounded by leather. Remind me…what was I thinking? __h__ttp:/img__.55859998_

_CricketHiedi: *explosion* Oops. I think I buried the dog in leather and cotton. _

_CricketHiedi: Basil Bea just attempted to escape out the door. Fail. Juliet balcony strikes again. __ img.3834793_

I open the link and see a photo of the dog attempting to walk out a door. There's a small Juliet balcony made of metal slats that look like the dog's foot could get caught between. Actually, I think the dog is stuck.

_CricketHeidi: Starting new fabric stash. *Sneaks around apt hiding fabric*_

_CricketHeidi: Going to the store. Buying some fabric. And thread. And other notions. Didn't bring any with me. _

_CricketHeidi: Gonna reopen shop. _

There are quite a few tweets that make no sense after that one. Mostly asking her questions about her purses, me, and other things. I skip all tweets not actually from Door.

_CricketHeidi: Is it bad I want to turn on the a/c? It's like 75 today. And why is no one else enjoying this? We're the only people with windows open. _

_CricketHeidi: *Blink. Blink* I have over 95 requests for orders. In a day. *Passes out*_

_CricketHeidi: *Muppet arms* Fifteen minutes of fame here I come! __ byt.8338397_

_MarkGatiss: CricketHeidi You're welcome. It was an enlightening personal essay. _

_CricketHeidi: *passesout* MarkGatiss just tweeted at me. And about me. Well, not me. Pilot Boy, but STILL. _

_MarkGatiss: Benedict fancies Sherlock's mind is an iceberg filled with penguins. CricketHeidi __ byt.7463764_

_CricketHiedi: OGM. Just met a guy named Ben. Pretty sure the last name was Cumberbatch. *Twiddles thumbs*_

_CricketHeidi: at park. It's totally flip flop weather here in Teh-has __ img.7766655_

I open the picture. It's the park I met them at. The sky is a deep blue, no clouds in sight. The grass is yellow and brown and Basil Bea Dog is sitting next to Door's outstretched, extremely pale legs. It's clear the photo is of her flip flops, though. Not the dog.

I didn't notice before. Her nails are all different color on her toes. Interesting.

_CricketHeidi: Basil's just a puppy that I used to know. _

_CricketHeidi: Dog and I are not friends._

_CricketHeidi: *sings Adele* I set fire to the dog, watched her shed off all her fur, so I set fire to the dog. *Not really. Picks up fur balls* _

_CricketHeidi: *sings* Basil's got a pocket, a pocket full of dog fur._

_CricketHeidi: My name is Basil Bea Dog and I'm a bark-a-holic. (Hi, Basil!) I have a barking problem and they keep on locking me up for it. _

A loud banging on my door startles me.

"Benedict! Need you on set!" calls a loud voice and I throw the phone down.

I snort quietly as I exit the trailer to be attacked by the makeup artist.

"What are you snorting about? If you'd stop pinching your nose, I wouldn't have to keep doing this," she chides.

"Oh, no. Not you. Bark-a-holic," I say, tasting the word Door made up.

"Uh, okay," the woman says, eyeing me in a strange manner as we walk and she un-shines my nose.

She clearly thinks I've lost it.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I think I'm gonna die.

Honest.

I am going to go over there, keel over, and simply die.

It's March.

I think. I don't even know any more. When did I get here? Why am I here? Where is the dog? Where are my feet? When did my whole world become pink?

Maybe I am dead?

No. Not dead. Just almost murdered by this pink leather that is not my friend. We will never be friends.

I hate leather.

Why did I think I could sew leather? I had issues with canvas, leather is thicker than canvas.

Clearly, I am mental. I ought to be put in a straight jacket and hauled off to a safe location to protect myself from…well, myself. This was my idea. I opened the shop back up. I offered up custom orders only and allowed people to choose what they wanted. Granted I tried to keep everything simple and easy, but I'm Dorothea Zephyrine Judoc-Abercombie— I don't do simple. I fail at simple.

Clearly. Look at my name.

I throw the failed pink leather purse body behind me and hear it hit the floor. I let my head drop to the desk and whack my forehead against the hard surface a few times. I only stop because my computer makes an odd noise.

I've got my laptop sitting on the crowded table along with my sewing machine. I'm honestly not sure how it all fits, but we no longer use the table to eat at. Actually, the dining area is no longer used to dine in at all. It is totally converted for purse making. I cut all my pieces on the floor.

I can say one thing about this: leather and dog fur get along fine.

Cotton and dog fur don't.

At least I am stellar at de-furring purses.

"What do you want now?" I ask the laptop.

It's always making noise, as I get a zamillion notices. Between Twitter and my email, Mr Laptop is almost making a ping noise.

Oh, Twitter…how you've made my life go BOOM.

I still do not understand Twitter. I think I might be mildly popular and I am totally overwhelmed. I don't know how famous people do Twitter. I have met quite a few interesting people via Twitter in the past few months since I met Benedict Cumberbatch. I think my best moment was when Mark Gatiss followed me. I about passed out.

If Tom Hiddleston ever follows me, I might just die. I'm pretty sure Benedict Cumberbatch knows Tom Hiddleston. I've heard things. And they made _War Horse_ together.

I'm not sure what I'd do if I ever _met_ Hiddleston…pass out. Oh, more likely, nothing. I'd totally clam up and become a mute robot— thus unable to tell him how brilliant he is and embarrass myself further.

Actually, that might be okay.

I stare at the computer screen and see a blue circle with an S jumping in the dock.

Skype.

Urg.

I've been getting more spam via Skype than normal. I don't actually use Skype other than to talk to my family via video chat during the holidays. I used to use it with my friend in California, but I haven't been in contact with her in a year. My only other friend, Pamela, is currently in the mists of getting ready to go on her big European adventure before arriving here in Texas to go through the same program as Jason.

Pamela is a pilot. Just like Jason. She's my only Air Force friend. You do not know how thrilled I am she's following us back to Del Rio, where I first met her.

I let my head fall back to the table, then sigh deeply as the computer makes another noise.

I gotta work.

I have like twenty zamillion orders to fill this week. While the purses I make are not complicated, I'm making them out of leather and did not do my usual trial period to work the kinks out. At least I stuck to the most basic purses to offer the leather. Also, many of the orders are for all cotton purses, my speciality. Everyday, basic, casual handbags.

Pushing myself away from the desk, I retrieve the body I tossed over my shoulder and turn it inside out and begin to rip the stitches out. At least I found the problem before I tried to sew the liner in. Usually after I stick the inside in the outside shell I find issues.

At least I realized the problem before I put the stupid thing together.

That bouncing icon is driving me nuts. Might as well get rid of it.

I pause in my ripping to block whoever is contacting me via Skype.

I've actually had a few people try to contact me via Skype for purse orders, so maybe I ought to be nice to Skype?

I blink several times when I see the message.

**747t38b2C112: _Hi. Is this Door? _**

**747t38b2C112: _It's Ben._**

The user name isn't anything a fangirl (or boy) would pick out. It actually looks like a randomized username.

Also, the person will have to actually personally know me to know I'm Door.

I move my finger across the trackpad and hit accept.

**CricketHeidi: Yes. This is Door. **

**747t38b2C112: Ah, good. Feel somewhat silly, but didn't want to set up a Twitter account.**

**CricketHeidi: I don't even want a twitter account. **

This feels somewhat surreal. I'm talking to Benedict Cumberbatch via Skype. About Twitter. Which I doubt either of us will ever understand.

**747t38b2C112: I see from your online presence, you've been busy as of late.**

**CricketHeidi: One could say that. Here I thought I'd be sitting around gathering dust for four months…**

**747t38b2C112: Better to be busy.**

**CricketHeidi: Eh. I'm always doing something. Like now. I'm ripping stitches out of a purse.**

**747t38b2C112: You're busy?**

**CricketHeidi: No, I'm ripping stitches. You'd be amazed at my skills at this. I can do it one handed and with my teeth.**

**747t38b2C112: I have a very strange mental image now. Thank you.**

**CricketHeidi: *evil grin***

**CricketHeidi: I'm done now. I've got two separate pieces now. *Waves two pink pieces of leather around***

**747t38b2C112: Don't you have to sew them together?**

**CricketHeidi: Well, yeah. If I actually want to make a purse. If I just want two pieces of pink leather that are square, then I'm done! *Flays Muppet arms* **

**747t38b2C112: Brilliant. **

**CricketHeidi: Of course it's brilliant. So, what have you been up to?**

**747t38b2C112: You don't know?**

**CricketHeidi: Er, no…something with Sherlock I assume.**

**747t38b2C112: You assume correctly. We did a read through today. Martin put grapes in his eyes and took a picture. I'm amazed you've not seen it. **

I pause for a moment, click the internet browser and hit the tab I've got open for Pinterest. I refresh and see the photo.

**CricketHeidi: Totally funny. I can't wait to see what the fandom does with that. I loved what they did with the iceburg.**

**747t38b2C112: I did as well. I hope you don't mind me tracking you down.**

**CricketHeidi: No. Why would I? You've been commenting on my blog for the past month. You don't creep me out if I don't creep you out.**

**747t38b2C112: Well, your fixation on Tom is slightly unsettling.**

**CricketHeidi: Oh, come on now. I'm not a member of his army and I'm not obsessed with Loki. That's not even my favorite role of his!**

**747t38b2C112: Curious, what is your favorite role?**

**CricketHeidi: Midnight in Paris. He made a killer F. Scott.**

I'm amazed Jason married me. I was fixated with Hiddleston when I met Jason. Actually, I'm surprised he decided to even like me, as when I'm nervous I tend to babble and tragically, I met Jason around the same time I had managed to get my hands on _A Waste of Shame_. While it stars Rupert Graves (I love him too, but not to the extent I adore Hiddleston), I mostly yammered on about Hiddleston. Granted, I didn't have a lot to talk about as by that point in 2006 I'd only managed to (illegally) get my hands a few things he was in, I still spent a good majority of the first weekend we spent together talking about another man.

Who I didn't know.

Who no one knew at that point.

I was rather smug when Tom Hiddleston blew up in 2011.

And now I'm talking to Benedict Cumberbatch. About Tom Hiddleston.

**747t38b2C112: I'll let him know. **

SQUEEEEEEEE!

Get a hold of yourself, Door.

**CricketHeidi: Though, I did like his role in _Wallander_. Pamela liked him for his hair, but I liked the character. He was kind of quietly cranky. A nice contrast to the depressed main character. **

**747t38b2C112: What are your feelings on New York?**

**CricketHeidi: The city? Well, if memory serves me correctly, it's dirty. My teddy bear was all grotty when I got home.**

**747t38b2C112: How old were you the last time you were there?**

**CricketHeidi: Too old to be sleeping with a teddy bear.**

**747t38b2C112: I've got the list of the publicity I must do for Star Trek in America in May. Seems New York might be the lone stop. They're trying to work around Sherlock to get me to LA, but I can't see it working.**

**CricketHeidi: Isn't everyone trying to work around Sherlock? He's not the easiest person to get along with.**

**747t38b2C112: lol. **

I feel so utterly surreal. I'm chatting with Benedict Cumberbatch like we're, well, old friends. We're talking about…things I'd not normally talk about with anyone.

OMG.

He knows I'm preoccupied with Tom Hiddleston and he's still talking to me.

Wait till I tell Jason!

(He bet me I'd never actually "talk" to Ben again…he was WRONG.)

This might be the start of a beautiful…odd…friendship. I can feel it.

Just like I knew Hiddleston was a talent to pay attention to.

So HA!


	3. Take Advantage of His Nicesoscity

**_Take Advantage of His Nicesoscity (A Door Word)_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Any time I see the icon on Skype as online, I message Door.

I don't know what it is about her, but she's a stress reliever. Even if it's just a few sentences, I feel a little lighter, a little more smiley. The tension I carry around melts away and I laugh.

It is truly amazing what laughing will fix. One of the reasons I adore working with Martin— he's hilarious. Except when he's serious. Then he is serious.

Luckily he can go from one extreme to another— unlike Door. I believe she's set at hilarious.

Tonight, after a long day filming Sherlock, I'm thrilled to be in a comfortable bed and not filming at night. We've had night shoots the past couple nights. They are long, cold and annoying.

I hate filming at night. I'd rather film in the daytime and have the marvel of technology turn it night.

My annoyance melts away the moment the chat window pops up before my eyes.

**CricketHeidi: You up?**

**747t38b2C112: At the moment. Why?**

**CricketHeidi: Pamela's European tour is a disaster. I have a feeling…she's not having fun.**

I know a little about Door's friend Pamela. Mostly she's a pilot in the Air Force, the only person in the Air Force besides her husband Door talks to, and her partner in crime for watching things on Masterpiece Theater. Recently, Pamela decided to take two weeks and tour Europe before moving to Texas on her own a la Samantha Brown.

(Who I had to wiki, as I had no idea who that was. She's a woman who had a show about touring Europe and she was "alone.")

(Meaning she had a whole film crew with her and randomly knew people in the cities she traveled to.)

**747t38b2C112: What makes you say that?**

**CricketHeidi: Well, think about anything that could go totally wrong and it's gone wrong. I think she spent last night on a bench. She's almost thirty years old and she's sleeping on benches in Paris! I don't even know why because she won't tell me. However, I got something to ask ya.**

**747t38b2C112: Yes?**

**CricketHeidi: I know y'all are filming in London at some point, might you be there next week?**

**747t38b2C112: We might.**

**CricketHeidi: If she gets stranded in London, might if I send her your way? I know that's asking a lot, but you're totally full of nicesoscity and I have a feeling she might need that by that point. **

Oh, how I love those made up words.

**CricketHeidi: London isn't even on her list of places to visit, but I think her flight home is out of London. And if things go as they are, she's going to be…well, screwed.**

**747t38b2C112: Does she always have this much bad luck?**

I hope she doesn't, as she flies for a living. I can only imagine the headaches she must have if she did.

**CricketHeidi: No. Usually her flights are flawless. Unlike Jay, she's never gotten stranded somewhere more than a few days. I don't know what is going on, but every time I get an email, it's a huge disaster. Last email detailed sleeping in some park in Paris, ah-la 13 Envelopes. I'm amazed she's still sane. She's anally organized.**

**747t38b2C112: Well, if she needs something, I'll help out, of course. I feel as if I know her by how well you speak of her.**

**CricketHeidi: Are you seriously real?**

**747t38b2C112: I believe so. My mother assures me I'm real. I must be.**

**CricketHeidi: Well, okay. As long a you're real. Wouldn't want to send Pamela to a non-real person. She might not even take you up on your offer of a bed. I don't know why her hotel reservations keep falling through. Or she keeps missing trains. She missed her train again this morning. I'm kind of worried.**

**747t38b2C112: I know. I can tell. **

I'm somewhat worried because Door is worried. From what I know of Pamela, she must be seriously freaking out if she'd 1) admitting to Door her trips are disasters and 2) Door feels the need to worry.

Door is not the type to worry.

**CricketHeidi: Well, that's all I wanted. To make sure if I foist her upon you, you'd take her in from the cold. I'm going to try to get her to go to London ahead of her original plan, but I don't know if that'll work. Likely not. **

**747t38b2C112: It'll be fine. Just let me know when she's in town, even if I'm not there. I can get my PA to let her into the flat if need be. **

**CricketHeidi: Thanks, Ben. You're seriously sent from above. **

I smile.

I didn't imagine three months ago when I met the girl with the strange looking dog I'd wind up friends with her and we'd carry out a long distance friendship via Skype messages and blog comments. I never imagined I'd find this person who was obsessed with a good friend of mine, created leather purses in blinding colors, and made up her own words yet would fail a spelling test and wind up friends with this strange person.

Friends.

While I do not need more friends, I do like the fact she's not in the business and she's my friend. She's on the outside looking into the life and her view is refreshing.

And she doesn't hold back.

She doesn't give a crap that I'm Benedict Cumberbatch. She has never requested information on Tom (oddly enough), or anyone else I know who is famous. The only favor she's asked is if I'd look after Pamela if she gets stranded in London.

I kind of want Pamela to be stranded in London.

I want to meet her.

* * *

Pamela is gorgeous. Even though she is haggard, looks like she might have been rolled over by a lorry at some point, needs a shower, and smells kind of like a bin, she's utterly gorgeous.

Luckily, she's so out of it she'd failed to notice the fact I keep staring at her as we ride in the taxi back to my flat from the station I retrieved her from.

"I don't know if that's near you or not, but could you go get her before they close the Tube? Do they close the Tube?" Door's worried filled voice asked over the phone line.

(She'd called my mobile via Skype to inform me Pamela was in town.)

(And the Tube does close at roughly 12.30 in the morning. It's about to close when I found Pamela outside the station.)

"I don't know what to say," Pamela says, sounding small and lost as she stares out the window in slight awe at the sight of London at night.

She is small. She's tiny. I cannot believe this tiny creature flies a C-17. Or did.

"You don't need to say anything," I assure her.

She clings to the beat up looking backpack, the kind you see uni students using to backpack around Europe. The taxi comes to a halt outside the flat and I take the bag from her, surprised she's able carry this thing. It weighs probably as much as she does.

"I'm so sorry," she apologizes as I get out of the cab and attempt to put the heavy backpack on.

"It's no problem," I assure her for what feels like the millionth time since I went off to the tube station to get her.

I pay the driver and motion for Pamela to follow me into the building. The doorman opens the door, nodding at me and eyeing Pamela. I hear Pamela's footsteps as she follows me across the lobby.

"I'm so sorry," Pamela restates, trailing behind me.

"No need to apologize. Let's just get you upstairs and in bed," I say, showing her to the lift. Usually I take the stairs, but she looks like she might keel over at any moment.

Pamela remains silent till I unlock the door to the flat and show her in. She takes one step in and asks, "Are you sure?"

"You're not a bother," I assure her.

I indicate she ought to step in further. She does and I shut the door. She stares into the lounge.

"Are you sure? This is strange."

She wrings her hands together. I put on a warm smile and assure her that it's not strange.

"You're famous."

"You're a pilot."

"I've never met you."

"I haven't met you," I tell her.

I don't tell her I feel like I know her from chatting with Door. I feel like I know Door's husband as well. I'm not sure how these two people even can get along with Door. Door has very little in common with either pilot, yet they are the people closest to her.

"You've only met Door for like five minute," Pamela mutters. She takes a few more steps into the flat. "I can't believe I let her talk me into this."

"It's not really a problem," I assure her. "I have a guest bedroom."

She turns to me and gazes at me through her large, chocolate eyes. Her eyes are huge, doe like and filled with how tired and stressed out she currently finds herself. She is in desperate need of a shower, a bed and a meal. She turns back to the lounge, eyes falling on the figure on the couch.

Oh. I forgot about him.

"I think you've got a guest already," she comments, her tone suddenly more wry than tried.

I can almost see her loosen from the tight ball. Does she know who that is?

"Eh. He doesn't count," I assure her. "He zonked out from a combination of hunger and exhaustion."

Tom came over and promptly fell asleep. I am not even sure why he dropped by other than to take a nap. We had caught up before I started filming Sherlock and I honestly did not think I'd see him again till after I was done with Sherlock and promoting _Star Trek_. He surprised me by texting and asking if I had a moment to hang out.

So, he took a nap and I read the script for tomorrow.

"Hunger?" Pamela asks, looking confused.

"He's doing this thing for UNICEF. He has to live on less than a pound a day," I report.

I take a few more steps in the flat, heading for the hall. Pamela doesn't follow at first. I indicate she needs to follow. She glances at the back of Tom's head once more before following me to the hall.

"I hope you mean weight and not money," she says quietly.

"No, I meant money. I think everything's just catching up with him. He's been asleep since he sat down," I explain with a quiet snort.

I wish I was asleep. Though, not really. I smile down at Pamela as we enter the darkened hall. I lead her down to the room, opening the door. I flick the light on and set the backpack down on the chair.

"This is it. Not much. Loo's right there. Private. No need to share with me," I say, chuckling.

She looks grateful.

"And if you're worried, the door locks. Not that I think my guest will wake."

Pamela looks at me with a strange expression, but nods.

"Well, I put fresh towels in the loo the other day, so I think everything is in order. I've got an early call tomorrow, but you feel free to do whatever you must, okay?"

"You're too nice."

"I know. I've been told," I chuckle. "I'll see you either tomorrow night or in the morning if you manage to get up before I leave."

"I'll likely be up," she says. "I tend to wake at ungodly hours when I don't need to. Are you sure this if—"

"I'm glad to have you. Any friend of Door's is a friend of mine. Especially one who isn't freaking out about me, just the situation."

"I only know who you are because Door told me a million times while she was trying to convince me to take you up on your offer and to not call you Elf Guy. Oh, god, I called you Elf Guy."

"I've been called worse," I assure her.

"How did you find me?"

"Door told me where you were," I reply.

She sighed. "Thank god she knew where I was. I sure as hell didn't."

"How did you contact Door, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Pay phone. I found a pay phone and I had a phone card," she said. "I called her. On a pay phone."

Pamela blinks and her eye lids look heavy. I quickly tell her goodnight and allow her to be alone. Shutting the door, I pause for a moment and wait. The lock doesn't click over right away. I hear the lock on the toilet click as the shower starts.

I turn and head to see if I can get Tom off my couch.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

His head felt fuzzy. Bleary. Off kilter.

And his stomach…it grumbled, twisted and pulsed.

Why was he so tired?

Why was he so hungry?

"You're not a bother," a deep voice said somewhere to his left.

Or right.

Tom wasn't sure which way was left or right at the moment. He was groggy, starving, and misplaced.

Clearly.

Where was he?

"Are you sure?" an American female voice inquired. "This is strange."

"It is only strange if you let it."

"You're famous."

"You're a pilot."

"I've never met you."

"I haven't met you."

"You've only met door for like five minutes," the women said.

Door? How does one meet a door? And had that person meant "door" as a proper noun or did she simply have horrid grammar?

"I can't believe I let her talk me into this," the woman grumbled, weariness in her tone suddenly. There was a lull in the conversation and something thudded to the floor.

"It's really not a problem. I have a guest bedroom," the deeper voice said.

He sounded amused.

"I think you've got a guest already," the woman observed, her tone wry and tired now.

Tom needed to open his eyes. Roll over. Go home. He clearly wasn't at his flat. Smelled wrong. And there were two strange people here. Okay, one strange person. He was pretty sure the guy was Ben.

Why was Tom so addlepated? What had happened? He was not drunk. The hangover was absent and the floaty, no care in the world, bleary feeling of alcohol was lacking in lieu of the hangover.

Tom mostly felt like he'd been enfettered and then run over by a lorry.

"Eh. He doesn't count. He passed out from a combination of hunger and exhaustion," Ben explained.

"Hunger?"

"He's doing this thing for UNICEF. He has to live on less than a pound a day," Ben explained, moving further into the flat. Smaller footsteps followed.

"I hope you mean weight and not money," the female's voice said, getting farther away.

"No, I meant money," Ben responded. "I think everything's just catching up with him. He's been asleep since he sat down."

A door opened and the voices started again, but now Tom couldn't understand what they were saying. Slowly, he pried his eyelids open to find himself staring at the back of a brown leather couch. He blinked at it a few times before pushing himself up.

Yeah, he'd clearly been hit by a lorry.

His head felt like a mare's nest.

Tom looked to the left and to the right, his mind trying to wrap around what he was doing at Ben's flat.

Ben was busy. Like insanely busy. He was doing about ten different things at once, backed up right next to one another. Tom thought his schedule was overkill, but it was nothing like Ben's.

Granted, Ben was bowing out of quite a few awards shows while Tom seemed to be going to an awful lot of awards shows.

Tom focused on the dregs of Ben's meal on the coffee table, the glass of water he'd drunk, then the copy of a script. It was open to whatever scene Ben had to film tomorrow. Ben's chicken scratch handwriting was all over the script. There was also several stick figures drawn. Tom leaned forward and peered at the figures.

They were in a different hand, so clearly Martin had gotten a hold of Ben's script.

Roughly, Tom ran a hand over his face a few times to wake himself up.

His stomach gave off a rather loud sounding growl. He stared at his midsection.

"So, Sleeping Beauty awakes!" Ben announced, walking back into the lounge. "Good nap?"

"How long have I been asleep? Why did you let me sleep so long? What time is it? Don't you need to be up early tomorrow? First day on location in London and all," Tom reminded his friend.

"Let's see. You've been asleep for almost six hours, I let you sleep because you look as exhausted as I feel, it's about one in the morning, and yes, I do need to be up early."

"Was there another person here a moment ago?"

"Yes."

"Who? She sounded female."

"You don't know her. Stranded captain," Ben said, gathering up the take away containers that smelled delicious. Even if they were stone cold and likely empty.

"Captain? Captain of what? America?"

"Close. The United States Air Force."

Tom blinked. "Where'd you find her?"

"A Tube station."

"You simply felt the need to go out and find a service member in a Tube station? The American service at that," Tom added, slowly getting to his feet. He cracked his neck and ran a hand through his unruly hair.

"Well, I couldn't find a British one," Ben easily replied, binning the left overs. "Door sent me for her."

"Door?" Tom asked, as his stomach growled again. "A door sent you?"

Ben eyed Tom's midsection for a moment, then looked back up at Tom. "Yes. That girl I met when I was stranded in Texas a few months back. We've been chatting. Her friend was stranded in London and due to the fact she's been having a rotten trip, Door asked if it was fine if she stayed over."

"And because you're a nice guy, you said yes," Tom concluded.

Ben chuckled and picked up his script. "Of course."

"How long is she going to be here for, then?" Tom inquired.

"A few days. Her flight was cancelled, then she missed the one tonight because she was trapped on a train," Ben explained. "Sounded like a nightmare. While she's used to not sleeping in a proper bed, Door seemed to think she needed a bed. You'd agree if you saw her. She looked worse than you did when you tumbled through the door."

Tom nodded. "Want me to stay?"

Ben stared at Tom as if he were crazy.

"Don't you have to be home to feed yourself?" Ben inquired. "Maybe I should join you in this one pound a day diet you're doing. I can't eat much and it's a good cause."

"I know. I told you to do it with me," Tom reminded Ben.

Ben was on a strict diet to maintain his "Sherlock body." In order to keep him operating, he had a rigid list of things he had to eat each day in order not to pass out. Tom was pretty sure take away wasn't on that list, but Ben had ordered it whilst Tom was dead to the world on the couch so he'd been unable to mock him for caving to temptation.

"I'd rather stay," Tom admitted, sinking back onto the couch. He honestly didn't want to figure out how to get home. It seemed much too difficult to deal with at the moment. "I'm knackered."

He flopped backwards back on to the couch.

"Don't you have to be somewhere tomorrow?"

"No. Thursday I've got the ITV morning talk show to talk about Below the Line," Tom said.

"Well, if you're not going anywhere…"

Ben crossed the room and flipped the lock on the front door. He retired to the back of the flat. Stretching out his full height, he was thankful Ben was tall. This meant he'd bought a super long couch.

"Here."

Something soft landed on Tom's face. Pulling it away, he found Ben had given him a pillow and a blanket.

"Bless you," Tom said, opening the blanket up.

"You know where the loo is, right?"

"Yes, Benedict," Tom drawled. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, Thomas," Ben drawled right back, injecting the same upper class tones Tom had used.

Tom rolled back around and closed his eyes.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Tom is still on the couch.

"I'm so sorry," I apologize for the millionth time.

Where are my shoes?

"Stop apologizing, Benedict."

"I'm a horrible host," I say, ignoring the fact she's calling me Benedict even though I told her to call me Ben. Door had mentioned Pamela tends to call people by their full names, as she detests being called anything other than Pamela. She tried to call Door Dorothea when they first met.

It did not go over well with Door.

"Go to work," Pamela says, eyeing Tom's sleeping form.

"But—"

"I'm in the military," she says, turning back to me. She's wearing a grin.

She thinks she can take Tom if need be. Tom's taller than I am and currently not trying to be a skinny twig of a man as I am.

"You're in the Air Force," I remind her.

"But, I'm a pilot," Pamela says as if it explains everything. "So, I know how to do more than paperwork."

I think I missed a joke in there.

"I'll just wait a minute…" I trail off wondering if I ought to kick Tom in the head to get him to leave.

I need shoes to leave.

I'm still not sure why I didn't kick Tom out last night. He woke up the moment I came back from showing Pamela the guest bedroom. It feels wrong to leave Pamela alone in the flat with an unknown man— even if it's Tom the Nicest Guy on the Planet Who Would Likely Take a Bullet for a Stranger than Do Harm.

Oh, be honest with yourself, Benedict. You know why you don't want to leave her alone with Tom.

Maybe that is why I cannot find any shoes? Other than Pamela's, which are much too tiny to fit my big toe.

"Go to work, Benedict Cumberbatch," Pamela says as if she's speaking to a child.

She is also holding a pair of my shoes.

"I'll wake him up," I offer, taking the shoes from her.

"I thought you were the one who said he was exhausted."

Oh, now she wants to let him sleep. A moment ago she was looking at him as if he were some sort of bug that might attack.

"I should wake him up," I insist, taking a few steps towards him. I can throw a shoe at him. "He's been sleeping for almost ten hours, well, other than the five minutes he was awake after you got here."

Pamela smiles— a breath taking smile. Why is this woman in the freaking Air Force? She ought to use her— when did I become shallow?

Get a grip.

Put your shoes on your feet.

"You're just jealous of him and his mad sleeping skills," Pamela teases.

Oh, that and so much more.

There is an inkling somewhere in my overly crowded mind that doesn't want me to leave her alone with Tom I Have an Army of Fan Girls Hilddleston.

(Yes, I know I have my own fangirls. But they are NOTHING like his fangirls. Mine are sane. Well, saner.)

I snort. Pamela chuckles quietly.

"If Steven Moffat kills you because you're late, it'll be on your head," Pamela reminds me.

Bloody hell. She's right. I was late yesterday (and almost every day before that).

I cram my feet into the shoes she gave me. I look around for my coat.

Where is my bloody coat?

Oh, right. I hung it up.

"Okay, okay," I mutter, gathering my belongings.

Coat is on, keys are in my hand, script is in my bag. Check. Oh, I have that extra key somewhere. I dig through the bowl next to the door till I unearth the spare key.

"Here's a key. If you decide to leave. There's a man at the door. I'll let him know who you are. He'll buzz you into the main building. Uh…I think that's all. If you find food, feel free to eat it. I'm not sure what's I've got in."

"Fine, fine, fine," she insists, shooing me out the door.

"Okay, okay," I say. "I left my number on the fridge. I've got a landline. Feel free to use it. I think that's all."

"What's his name?" she whispers, pointing at Tom.

"Tom—"

I stop from saying his last name only because she pushes me out the door.

"Thanks. I'll be fine."

And she shuts the door in the my face. For a moment I wonder if I ought to storm back in there and drag Tom off the couch, but my phone dings and reminds me I'm late.

Bloody hell.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom woke up with a start and it was due to the fact his stomach demanded sustenance. Dragging himself to sit up, he ran his hands over his face a few times. His stomach made another noise of protest for the lack of food in it.

Man, this was hard. He'd have to get home before he could eat— mostly because he'd all ready bought all his food for the week, thus spending his pound a day. Though, if he ate a bit of bread or something here couldn't hurt…he'd just not eat a slice of toast out of his own stock.

Yeah…that could work.

"What the hell?"

Tom's head snapped up.

"Stupid, complicated, evil contraption," muttered a female voice.

Tom eased himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He poked his head through the doorway to find a rather short female studying the old fashion coffee machine Ben owned. The woman was wearing simple, yet fitted clothing showing off her rather boyish figure. The sunlight flowed through the window nearby, highlighting the blonde stripes through her light brown/dark blonde hair that was tossed into a haphazard ponytail.

The simplicity of her appearance was like a breath of fresh air and Tom felt himself smiling a little watching her futz with the coffeemaker.

"And I thought the coffee machines at work were complicated," she muttered, whacking the contraption before her. "You'd think he'd have one of those thousand dollar cup things. Easy-peasy-weasy and wha-la! Coffee!"

She yanked something out of the machine, making a clattering noise that did not sound good.

"Oops. How'd…"

"Need assistance?" Tom asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He smiled, wearing his most charming one he had in his arsenal.

The woman turned around. He expected her to jump or seem startled, but she looked at him rather blankly. She was quite pretty, with rather large, doe-like brown eyes. She wore no makeup, but was tan like so many other Americans tended to be year round. She looked healthy and athletic, though, instead of orange and skinny.

The longer Tom looked at her, the more American the woman appeared. It was strange. Tom had met many American actresses through his work. There was always something about these people that pin-pointed them as American. Sometimes it was a big thing like the shade of blonde their hair was dyed, the way they moved or the way they wore their clothes. More often it was something little that he didn't really notice till he'd been around the person long enough to speak to him or her.

Something about the woman before him screamed AMERICAN like no one else he'd met before. She was wearing basic clothing: black yoga pants, a white shirt, and a black zipped up cotton sweatshirt. She was barefoot, wore no jewelry and other than knowing she was American by hearing her speak, there was nothing remotely on her that shouted AMERICAN (well, other than her highlight job). But, she screamed AMERICA more so than Chris Evans in his Captain America costume.

Hell, he was sure she could speak with a British accent and there still be no mistaking her for anything except an American— no matter how good the accent was.

During the time he spent staring at her, she took him in as well. Her face was still blank and he could tell she had no idea who he was. Clearly, Ben hadn't bothered to tell her.

And like the simplicity of her appearance, it was like a breath of fresh air. While he was thankful for his fans and adored them to no end, it was rare these days someone female had no clue who he was. The air in the kitchen seemed fresher, brighter and sweeter suddenly.

It made him smile larger.

"Good morning," she greeted, small smile on her face. Her dark eyes scanned Tom's face. She looked a bit dazed by the fact he was still smiling at her with his all out beamer smile. She turned back to the coffee machine. "You know how to work this thing? I ground up the beans and put them in the right thingamabob. I think. Is Benedict a coffee snob? He had a hand grinder. I didn't think they made those things."

"I don't think he is," Tom admitted, pushing himself off the doorjamb. The woman looked at him over her shoulder. "I think he enjoys doing things the old fashion way. I'm amazed he has beans. He usually runs late, so he grabs his coffee from Starbucks. His mum got him this thing. I think for aesthetics."

The woman sighed, rolled her eyes and turned back around, her low ponytail swishing across her shoulder blades. She watched him approach out of the corner of her eye, pushing a piece of hair that had escaped behind her ear. Deciding he was taking too long, she once again tried to jam the expresso press into machine again.

"Here, darling," Tom said, taking it from her. "There's a method to it, I'm sure."

Tom stared at the machine. It had lots of knobs and leavers. Tom doubted Ben actually knew how to use the thing, but felt compelled to have it in his kitchen to please his mother. Luckily, Tom had crashed at Ben's flat a few times since they'd met and one morning in desperate need of coffee figured the contraption out.

Now, he just needed his slightly addled mind to remember.

It took a few minutes, but his brain finally kicked into gear.

"Ah! There we go," Tom said, locking the press in place. "Do you have a cup?"

"Yeah," she said, producing a china mug from the other side of the counter. "Do you need one? Took me twenty minutes to find them. You can tell he's a bachelor."

She shook her head, the shorter bits of hair around her face flying out from behind her ears.

"Even my aunt laid out her kitchen better and she has no idea how to cook let alone design a kitchen," the woman went on.

"And you do?"

"You do not put the plates in the cabinets farthest from the dishwasher. You do not put the silverware nowhere near the plates, and the glasses above the stove. Don't even get me started on the layout of her kitchen," she complained with a small grin on her face. "At least his kitchen is laid out properly."

Tom had no opinion on kitchens, so he remained silent. He hit another button and he heard the machine kick into gear. He stuck her mug under the spout.

"I ground up enough for two cups," she said. "Here."

She produced another cup and offered it to him. He took it with a smile. She began talking before he could thank her.

"Benedict mentioned you were doing something for UNICEF and couldn't eat more than a pound a day. Or something. Maybe you had to live on less than a pound a day, not eat more than a pound," she amended, heading to the other side of the island and throwing cabinets open. "What is it?"

"Pardon?"

"What are you're doing? And why are you doing it? The pound a day thing."

"Oh, uh, Below the Line. That's what it's called, Below the Line. For five days I have to eat on less than a pound a day," Tom explained. "A pound sterling, not weight. Like, less than a dollar a day."

He began to tell her all about his work with UNICEF. He handed her the mug filled with coffee, then filled a cup for himself. He mentally tried to figure out how much the cup would be based on the fact the beans Ben had cost almost seventeen pounds a bag.

"Milk? Sugar? Cream? I don't think he has cream," the woman interrupted during a lull in his spiel, opening the fridge. "Why is this thing so small?"

"Is it?" Tom asked, turning to look at the rather large fridge/freezer Ben had in his kitchen.

It was also alarmingly empty. No wonder he'd ordered take away the night before.

"Oh. It's normal, isn't it?" she amended. "God, I'm out of it. I should know this. I fly around the world! I've been to Thailand, Australia, Japan! I've seen the fact we Americans have huge ass fridges."

She shook her head, the loose strands of hair flying out from behind her ears again. She tucked them behind her ear and grabbed the milk. She sniffed it, made a face and looked around.

"Where's his trash can?"

"The bin's under the sink," Tom offered, opening the near by cabinet door for her.

She crossed and binned the spoiled milk.

"You'd think he _was_ Sherlock. No milk, no food. All he needs are some eyeballs or a foot," she grumbled mostly to herself. She leaned against the island and peered at Tom. "Anyways, so, you need to go home to eat?"

"I should," Tom admitted. "But, uh…"

There was a list of reasons he didn't want to leave. 1) He didn't want to leave her alone in Ben's flat, 2) he was so hungry at the moment he couldn't think passed eating, and 3) he kind of liked this woman. She was just…so bleeding American, yet in an unfamiliar way.

"I'm fine on my own," she assured him, seeming to read his mind somewhat. "I figured I'd go back to bed. I need to get back to the States, but I don't think I can handle dealing with the people at the airlines again today. I'll take a day off. I can't remember the last time I had a day off."

She looked rather amazed.

She was like Ben, only a pilot. Everyone needed a day off sometimes to simply enjoy life and Ben (Mr Workaholic) had left his guest alone in his flat while he worked the day away. Granted, from what Tom remembered, Ben really hadn't had much of a choice…but, that was besides the point. Ben could have dragged her along with him to set.

Tom studied her as she cupped the mug in her tiny hands, her nails bare of varnish. She leaned forward on the island, resting her forearms on the worktop.

"Did you find bread?" Tom heard himself ask.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Toast. Jam and butter. Toast," the girl said, pushing herself upright. She set the mug down and rubbed her eyes, shaking her head.

"I think you need to drink your coffee," Tom suggested, sipping his cooling coffee.

"I did," she replied, looking into her cup. "It's empty and made me more spacey. Sorry. I have reached my limit of being jet lagged. Or awake. Or both. I'm not sure. But at some point, I get spacey."

"That's fine. I'll make the toast. And I'll need an egg."

"I saw those. I don't know if they're expired. He did have them in the fridge, thank god," she said, turning towards the fridge. "You don't keep them in the fridge here. They're just out in the grocery store on the shelves near the bread."

Tom grinned at her, enjoying her random observations. He'd heard them before, had made a few of them himself— but hearing them from her was…nice. He liked the sound of her voice, the soft regional accent that her voice hinted at, and the cadence of her speech pattern.

"Oh, god. I forgot to ask you your name," she suddenly realized as she pulled the eggs out of the fridge. She turned to him, looking as if she was trying to remember something. "Benedict told me, but I'm having trouble remembering. I'm so sorry."

"You don't know me?" Tom inquired innocently. He had deduced she had no clue who he was judging by the ease she was behaving around him and the blank expression that greeted his entrance to the kitchen.

"Should I? Are you a famous philanthropist?"

"I wish, but no. I'm an actor."

"Oh. Like Benedict," she said, nodding. She looked a bit sheepish. "I am really out of touch with the world of entertainment. I simply can't keep up. I didn't honestly know who Benedict was, other than this guy who Door started chatting to after she ran into him at a park in San Antonio."

"You've not seen _Sherlock_?"

"I have. Door and I watched it together over the phone when it was on PBS," the woman explained. "We always watch stuff together on PBS. It's Door's thing: Masterpiece Theater. If it's been on Masterpiece Theater in the past eighteen years, she's seen it."

"Is that so?" Tom asked, raising his eyebrows up.

The woman nodded, setting the eggs next to the stove.

"Last time I was really up to date on pop culture was when I was at pilot training," the woman admitted, shrugging. "Door kept me up to date. Or tried to. I usually know popular songs, though I don't know the artist. Or the title of the song. The guys I fly with always seem to know all the bad pop songs of the moment and they get trapped in my head. I was singing 'Call Me Maybe' all summer not actually knowing who recorded it. Door says you can always trust me to know the current top ten songs, yet have no clue who they are by. Or the actual titles of the songs."

She laughed, looking a little embarrassed. Tom allowed a small grin to grace his lips.

"Well, I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours," Tom hedged.

"Pamela."

"Tom."

"Nice to meet you, Tom," she said, small smile on her face. She held out her hand. Tom took it and shook, then dragged her closer to do the proper European greeting. It was slightly awkward, as she clearly did not expect it. Tom carried through with swiftly and lightly kissing both cheeks.

"Wonderful to meet you, Pamela," Tom said when he let her go. She looked delightfully wrong footed. "Eggs? How do you take them?"

"I don't, uh, care," she said, sounding flustered. She blinked rather aggressively a few times before stepping around Tom. Tom smiled, turned and went to grab a pan (opposite end of the kitchen from the stove). He set it on the hob. He stared at the eggs, wondering if he should scramble or fry.

"So, uh, what have you been in?" Pamela inquired, putting bread into the toaster.

"These days it seems that everyone knows me thanks to Loki," Tom admitted over his shoulder.

"Loki?"

Pamela scrunched her nose up, cocked her head to the side and appeared bemused. Tom nodded, smiling largely at her.

"Heard of him?"

"Uh…was he in that superhero movie with more than one superhero?" she asked, turning her attention to finding some plates. (They were near the stove, but Tom figured he'd let her find them on her own.)

"Loki was in two movies. _Thor _and _The Avengers_."

"Oh," she said, finally coming to stand next to him. She got onto her tip toes and opened the cabinet above the stove. She was quite a bit shorter than Tom. She only came up to his shoulder without any shoes on. "Loki's a god, right?"

She fell back to her heels.

"Yes."

"I think I saw those movies…somewhere hot," she said, scratching her head and causing the shorter locks of hair to fall out of her ponytail.

"You sound like me during a film promotion," Tom commented. "I forget where I've been sometimes."

"I think I was…oh, I likely at Altus," Pamela remembered. "I hate Altus. Pointless to be there too."

"Why?"

"Because, I'm not flying the C-17 any longer and the last time they sent me there I knew it by that point," she grumbled, getting back on her tiptoes to get the plates down as the toast popped up.

Tom decided to leave that topic alone for the time being.

Tom paid attention to the eggs till they were done. He scooped up a portion for himself and handed the rest to Pamela.

"Can you have bread?"

"Yes. Ben gets the same bread I do, so I know the cost. Hand one over," he ordered, grinning at her.

She handed him a slice and put the others on her plate. Tom was starved, but took the photo of his food to post later, then forced himself to eat slowly. He'd not be eating anything till lunch and that was hours away.

"So, you're Loki," she said conversationally. "That was the…uh, one of the gods, right?"

"Yes, one of the gods," he said, feeling rather amused.

The woman was clueless.

"There was more than one, right?" she asked.

"Yes. There were only two in _The Avengers_," Tom said, looking at her. She stared at him a moment, her cheeks going slightly pink. "Many more in _Thor._"

"I fly planes for a living."

"I gathered. What plane again?"

"I used to fly the C-17," she grumbled, looking back down at her plate. "The last batch of assignments that came down were horrible for everyone. I got one of the better assignments. At least I'm still flying."

"What…kind of plane is a C-17?"

"Cargo. Large plane. Not the biggest, but it's like a five story condo," she said, looking back up at him. "I love telling people I fly it because they stare at me, then the plane and can't believe I'd be able to fly something that gigantic."

She grinned the most adorable grin.

"I'll be flying a training prop plane next. Based at the same spot Door and her husband are going."

"Door and her husband?" Tom asked, eyebrows furrowing together. "Wait, aren't they…oh."

Tom sat back a bit on the stool he was seated upon. How had he managed to forget that Ben had told him last night about her being an Air Force captain? And her connection to Door should have given it away as well, as Tom had known Door was a military wife. Anyone could deduce that from her Twitter updates over the past three years. (Yes, Tom had read them that far back during a long flight. They were amusing.)

"What? Oh, did I forget to mention I'm in the Air Force? Sorry," Pamela apologized, cheeks turning a bit pink. She looked down, pressing her lips together. She shook her head, giving him a tight smile when she looked up. "I always forget not everyone knows already. I've pretty much isolated myself in a little bubble."

"At least you've got a community," Tom offered. "So, how long have you been in the Air Force?"

"Uh…five years now?" Pamela asked, rolling her eyes up to do the math.

"Really?"

She didn't look old enough to have been in for five years. Then again, Door could pass for twelve and she was thirty.

"Did you go to university?" Tom inquired, popping the last bit of toast into his mouth.

"Of course. You have to be an officer to be a pilot," Pamela said. "I was in ROTC, then sat around for nine months, a year of pilot training and then four months of training at Altus, then finally started my first assignment. And then kept going back to Altus for more training. I think I spent more time in Altus than I did in Seattle."

"Did you, uh, study planes at university?" Tom asked, the sentence feeling awkward in his mouth. 'Did you read aeroplanes?' didn't sound right at all, though.

"Sort of. I was an aeronautical engineering major. We know nothing about planes. We know how they fly, like the theory, but can't fix a plane if our life depended on it. So, I know…why a plane flies and I might be able to design a plane."

"Do most pilots know how to fix their planes?"

"Well, no. Jason, Door's husband, he got a degree that sounds fancy, but he was basically qualified to be an airplane mechanic at the end of the day. He knows loads more than I do about the actual planes we fly. He was familiar with them to a point it's almost child's play for him to fly the damn things."

"Fascinating," Tom admitted, even though he was more enjoying the look on her face as she spoke about something she was clearly passionate about.

"Are you done?"

Tom looked down at his plate to find it empty. He nodded and let her take the plate to the sink. He talked her out of doing the dishes and did them himself. He allowed her to dry them, but insisted he put them away.

"So, you know Ben through Door, then?" Tom asked, putting the two plates back above the stove.

"I guess. She told me I ought to take advantage of his nicesoscity," Pamela said.

"Nice-oz-city?"

Pamela looked up at him, appearing alarmed. "I did not just say that, did I?"

"You did, darling," Tom laughed. The look on her face was priceless.

Pamela turned away, cheeks going a little pink. "I've been talking to Door a lot lately. Well, since she left Alaska and we began planning since we'd be in San Antonio roughly at the same time. Door was an English major who spells grammar wrong no matter what, so of course she makes up her own words all the time."

"Does she spell those correctly?"

"Never," Pamela assured. "I'm pretty sure she started going by Door because she couldn't properly spell her own name."

"What's her actual name? Ben either calls her Door or Cricket."

"Dorothea. She hates the name," Pamela added. "She told me her name was Door and I honestly thought that her parents had named her Door Judoc."

Tom raised his eyebrows upwards and laughed. When he was done, Pamela was giving him a rather thoughtful look.

"What?"

"You've got a distinct laugh," she remarked.

"I've been told," he dryly said.

Pamela gave him a look and nodded. "Of course you have. I bet your fans adore that laugh."

She laughed rather uncomfortably, suddenly remembering she was in the mists of someone famous. Tom felt the air in the room shift.

"This is surreal," she muttered, looking away. "You likely have somewhere to be, don't you? I won't keep you. I'll be fine here."

"No. I don't have anywhere to be."

"Oh, um, okay."

"How long are you going to be in London? You never did give me a straight answer."

"I don't know. I have to be at Randolph on the sixteenth. Luckily, I padded in a few days. I assumed something would go horribly wrong." Pamela snorted rather unladylike. "I had hoped to be in San Antonio by Thursday to find an apartment, but that's not going to happen. Might just crash at an extended stay hotel. Door and Jason liked the one they stayed at for a few days before they found an apartment. I think I'll do that. I can make a reservation online. God, sometimes I think my brain stopped working the moment I left Seattle."

"Was that where you lived before Texas?"

"Yeah. Well, when I was there. I was deployed or on missions more often than not."

"At least you saw the world."

She snorted once more. "I saw military bases, lots of sand and the inside of a plane. I hardly ever saw the cities we flew into or near. You'd arrive, go to the hotel, find food, fall over, and repeat. Base hotels almost always suck and don't give you Hilton points. Well, not all of them were bad. Some of the time we got the nice rooms when we'd drop by Japan. Germany has the best rooms, though."

"Spend a lot of time in Germany?"

"Not really. Mostly either at the base or at the airport. It was always nice after going to Qatar to land in Germany. There was more than one color."

"Kay-tar?"

"Cutter."

"Ah, Qatar. You ought to say it properly," Tom teased. Pamela rolled her eyes. "What were you doing there?"

"Dropping stuff off. Also, I deployed there for a year like five-seconds after I arrived in Seattle."

Tom nodded. "So you weren't in Seattle often, then?"

Pamela shook her head, the loose strands flying out from behind her ears again. "Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered keeping an apartment."

"You live alone?"

Pamela stared at Tom as if he had two heads.

"Sorry. That was presumptuous of me."

"No, I just…never mind," she said, shaking her head. She tucked her shorter strands of hair behind her ears again. "I think I might…"

"I could show you around London," Tom quickly offered when she trailed off. "I've nothing on today. Just have to check in with my publicist and PA, but other than that, I'm free as a bird."

Pamela looked like a deer trapped in headlights, her brown eyes wide. Tom tried hard not to laugh.

She was utterly adorable.

"You don't…I'll be fine…I'll just stay here."

"And hide in Benedict's flat all day?"

She didn't respond.

"Come on. Have you been to London before?"

"No."

"Well, then, you must let me show you around. Get out and see the city you've found yourself. Take advantage of my nicesaucity."

She eyed him, looking somewhat suspicious. Tom put on an innocent face, made his eyes a bit wider and pleading and waited. He knew the moment she caved. Her shoulders slumped a little and her eyes got a little softer.

"Brilliant," he said before she could say anything. "I must nip on home. I'll meet you outside Ben's flat…half past twelve?"

She nodded. He sent her a huge smile, crossed the space between them and hugged her. He pulled away and said his farewells before she had any chance to react— to either his leaving or the hug. She'd been delightfully flustered and it was almost too adorable for him to bear much longer.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	4. Burden of a Glorious Purse

**_Burden of a Glorious Purse_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom booked it back to his own flat, showered and changed. By the time he was done, he was starving. And was getting the beginnings of a headache. It was almost lunch time, so he ate his forty-seven p lunch and drank a few glasses of water. After calling Luke and going over the plans for tomorrow's appearance on the ITV talk show, Tom grabbed his coat, an apple, the water bottle he'd taken to bringing with him recently and headed back out. He glanced at his watch as he got out of the cab near Ben's flat to find he was on time. He looked up and spotted Pamela standing just outside the flat, leaning against the building, staring at the ground as she dug the tip of her boot into the cement.

Since he'd left her, Pamela clearly taken a nap. She appeared more rested and had less tension within her body. Her hair was loose, the blonde highlighted hair falling forward and hiding her face from him. The highlights were distracting, as they looked even more unnatural now that her hair was freed from restraint. She was sporting a black fleece The North Face jacket, beat up jeans, and wore what appeared to be hiking boots. Nice, leather hiking boots, but hiking boots nonetheless.

She kind of looked like she was ready to go tramping instead of sight seeing around London.

"Cowboy boots?" Pamela inquired as Tom neared her.

"Of course," he said. He wore his cowboy boots everywhere. He usually put them on these days without realizing it. "A cowboy told me it was time to get some for myself. Proper ones."

She lifted her head up and quirked an eyebrow at his beat up boots.

"Did you get them in Texas?"

"No. California."

The eyebrow went up again.

"Are you from Texas?" he hazarded, feeling like he might have walked into something he ought to have stayed away from. He'd noticed something about certain regions of the United States: they were proud and hated other regions occasionally.

It was the same in England (or anywhere), only Tom was familiar with England so he knew where not to step. Not so much with the various regions of America (or anywhere else).

"No. I'm from Colorado," Pamela replied, pushing herself off the wall. She picked up a bag from the ground next to her. Tom stared at the vivid orange bag and wondered how'd he missed that bag when he'd arrived. "Well, where we going?"

"I thought we'd start out with the big sights. I've got sunglasses and I know how to blend," Tom insisted, motioning the sunglasses he'd stored in the v of his shirt.

Pamela looked doubtful.

"I don't know if we'll blend very well with that handbag of yours," Tom commented, staring at the thing.

It was really orange.

"Huh?" she asked, then looked down at the bag she was holding in her hand and laughed. "It's one of Door's. She makes them loud."

Tom hummed his agreement, still staring at the bag.

"You should see the inside," she said, opening up the huge bag. Tom bent over and peeked inside.

"Oh my," Tom commented. "That is rather…busy."

Pamela laughed. Tom straightened and smiled. She had a wonderful laugh.

"Busy. I like that word. She discovered a website where you can make your own fabric patterns. Or upload it. Or something. This is one of her own patterns. I think the whole bag must have been a failure as I've never seen it on her website, but it was free for me. Oh, and it's waterproof. That's why I brought it with me. I don't usually carry a purse."

The bag was rather empty. Or it was simply humungous and dwarfed everything else. Tom took note of the label within the bag, which claimed it was Cricket Heidi Designs: Casual, Chic, Everyday.

Tom wasn't sure there was anything casual, chic or everyday about the bag Pamela was currently holding.

Pamela shrugged the bag onto her shoulder (it was huge, it was almost as big as she was)and indicated with her chin for him to lead on. Tom turned and began walking along the street in the direction of the nearest Tube station.

"We will start with the world famous Tube," Tom offered, hooking his arm through hers to help keep him from walking too fast. It was only slightly awkward due to their height difference but kept Tom's stride in check. "Don't worry about being mobbed, though, most people ignore you when they spot you, or try to act like they haven't noticed you. Or they will see that purse and go running."

Pamela looked mildly confused, till realization dawned on her. "Ah. Yes. Most people fail to notice the world around them, the people around them, and comings and goings that do not pertain to themselves. But, sometimes they notice things and that is why I carry the purse. Protects me from weirdos."

"Wonderful, darling," Tom laughed. "Also, my fans are the greatest. I don't honestly have that much trouble. Most simply want me to sign something or take a photo with them. The paps are another story all together, but hopefully we won't come across them today."

They walked in silence to the nearest station. Tom insisted on buying the tickets. Pamela gave up after three minutes of trying to shove her own money at the machine. Tom figured she only conceded defeat because she realized she was trying to put dollars into a machine that only took pounds.

"I'm not usually like this," Pamela grumbled once they were seated on a train. "I'm put together. I have my shi— stuff together. I'm organized to the point my friends tease me. But…"

"You seem rather scattered," Tom admitted, giving her a smile. "It's perfectly understandable, darling. Give yourself some credit. You at least are awake and walking in a straight line."

He grinned at her, putting his arm over the back of the seat. It was midday, so the train car was relatively empty. Pamela eyed him for a moment, then gazed around the car. She looked somewhat thoughtful.

"Ever been on the Tube before?" he asked.

"I road it last night, but I don't remember much other than how bone tired I was. And I had no clue where I was going," she admitted. "Colorado Springs doesn't have a subway so it's still a novelty, don't worry."

"Oh, is that where you grew up? Colorado Springs?"

"Yeah. I didn't get around much. Not like Door, Miss I've Been to Over Forty States Plus Fifteen Different Countries," Pamela groused. "I mean, my family traveled, but we kept where we could drive. I saw a lot of Colorado, Wyoming and Texas."

Tom nodded. He questioned her on growing up in Colorado. He heard about red rocks, skiing in the winter, hiking in the summer, and snow up to the roof. She inquired about his childhood and he happily told her all about growing up with two sisters, boarding school and discovering acting.

"Our stop. Come along, darling."

Tom stood up, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. She got up without his aid. She hadn't noticed his extended hand till she was on her feet, thus she turned rather pink. (Part of Tom wanted to keep doing things to bring out the pink cheeks, while the other part of him wanted her to stop being so damn adorable.) Tom gave her a good natured smile and shrugged. He did, though, place his hand on her back to lead her off the train car. He kept it there to steer her through the growing crowds as they'd made their way to the heart of London. He stayed behind her as they got onto the escalators to start towards the surface.

"Wow," she breathed, her head craning around in all directions. "This is kind of amazing when you think about it."

Tom looked around, the various escalators going up, going down, going to all the various lines. He had never really paid much attention before, but it was somewhat impressive when he looked at it from a fresh perspective. He took note of the beauty in the concrete and metal that made up the expanse of the area they were in, the gleaming silver of the escalator and the harshness of the fluorescent lights.

"I mean, London is an old city," Pamela explained when Tom hadn't responded. "There are layers upon layers to London that live underground. Like Rome, they kind of just built over stuff as time wore on and this was dug out and built through all that history. In a timely manner, as they are still trying to build that line for the subway in New York and have been trying to do it for an ungodly amount of time."

"Never been here, yet know about my good city's history?" Tom teased.

"History Channel," was her answer. The weight it was said told Tom there was a story behind the reason she'd spent so much time watching the History Channel.

Pamela peeked up at him and saw his inquisitive expression.

"I spent a lot of time sitting around Altus when I was there for training. Not a lot to do in Altus, so I spent a lot of time watching the History Channel."

They continued to ride the longest escalator known to man. She leaned back into him as they neared the top. He felt her warmth through his thin t-shirt and stared down at the top of her head, once again marveling at the symmetry of her highlights along her perfectly straight, center part.

"Amazing."

Was she reading his mind? Why was he so fixated upon those blasted highlights?

"This is seriously amazing," Pamela breathed, walking forward and moving away from him so quick he almost lost her. She didn't get far (short legs). Tom grabbed her shoulder and steered her towards the exit, as of course, she'd gone the wrong way. She mumbled something about GPS as she proceeded to turn scarlett.

"Where are we exactly?"

"I thought the station name gave it way?"

Pamela laughed, looking up at him over her shoulder. "I did note that. But from what Door told me, the stops are never really near the tourist spots."

"Door's been here?"

"Yeah. She studied abroad, unlike me. She spent an entire year in London."

"Well, wasn't she a lucky girl," Tom commented.

"Door's been an anglophile since she was twelve and made the combined discovery of the Beatles and Masterpiece Theater," Pamela explained. "So, where are we exactly? Besides Westminster station."

"We're in the heart of London. Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, The Eye— all within an easy walk of the Westminster station."

Pamela nodded. "Door loved Parliament. I'm pretty sure she wrote odes to it for months."

"She's been?"

"Yeah. She was here in the late summer when it was open to tourists. Then they go into session or something. I don't remember. It wasn't important when I was looking through her scrapbook. She still told me. Clearly some of it filtered into my head, burrowed and made a home."

"So she is a demiurge of words as well as garrulous," Tom mused, moving so he was walking next to Pamela.

He dropped his hand from her back as they got onto the next escalator to the surface. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and peered down at her. She'd narrowed her eyes a bit before rolling them.

"If you're saying she invents her own words and never shuts up, then yes. That is Door to the tee," Pamela laughed, causing Tom to break into a huge smile.

That laugh might be his undoing. He wanted to cause it more often.

"Those are two of her major quirks. She also uses big words like you."

"Pray tell?" Tom asked.

Tom was curious about Door. During the time he'd known Ben and become good friends, Tom had learned Ben didn't randomly pick up people up at parks. Ben was quite private now that his fame had grown to the point his last name had become a verb. The circles he traveled in were composed of actors or people in the business. The people he called 'friend' was small and included a few people he knew from back in the day and fellow actors. Ben was usually rather weary of new people he met. Especially ones he met in the public.

Hence why Tom was rather surprised he had kept up contact with this Door person. Granted, it was due to Ben her life had recently spiraled out of proportion. All thanks to a mention on Twitter and the fact Ben regularly read her blog and commented.

Granted, Door could write and was quite entertaining.

"Hasn't Benedict pointed you at her blog? Sometimes I need a dictionary to read it," Pamela grumbled stepping off the escalator, staring up above her at the buildings.

"You used the context of my sentence to figure out what the words meant," Tom pointed out. "I doubt you use the dictionary often."

"Well, yeah. But I'm not…verbose like she is…then again, I can spell grammar," Pamela laughed. She turned around while still walking, taking her surroundings. "This place is utterly amazing. I mean, it's always looked nice on TV and stuff, but in person it's just…"

She trailed off, unable to find the proper word.

"I know what you mean," Tom agreed, smiling down at her. "I find London to be the beau ideal of cities."

Pamela rolled her eyes and shoved her purse at him, muttering at him to hold it for a moment.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Filming in London is always hectic. At least the fans have been well behaved today. Sue put out a request the night before for them to behave themselves and not to allow any spoilers to get out. Pretty sure they wouldn't understand what they were seeing by what we were filming today, but…eh.

It does feel good to be back at Baker Street (well, Sherlock's Baker's Street, not the actual Baker Street).

It is a mite cold. I can deal with the cold, though I feel a tad sorry for the fans. They are just standing in the freezing cold. Though, I guess it's better than standing in the heat. (Door complained it was going to be ninety degrees today in Texas. Much too hot for March.)

"What's got into you today?"

I startle to find Martin standing next to me in the doorway to the flat we use for 221B's exterior. He's wearing a huge puffy coat with a furry hood.

He looks ridiculous. Especially with the look he's wearing on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem far away," he explains, shrugging.

My phone beeps.

"And now you're beeping. You shouldn't beep."

I _shouldn't_ beep. I also shouldn't have my own phone on me, but I must have slipped it into Sherlock's coat when I wasn't paying attention.

I pull out the phone and look down to find I've got a text and a photo from a number in the States. I don't know the number off the top of my head, so I assume it might be Door. I'd given her my mobile number last night to give to Pamela.

The photo is too small for me to really understand the text, so I go into the text menu and find it's a photo of Tom. In a Tube car. I frown as another text pops in from the same number.

**_You do realize she'd got no clue who she's with, right? _**

**_You didn't tell her she was with Hiddleston._**

I look at the photo again. It is clear Tom is in guide mode. He is leaning forward to the photo taker and has no clue his photo is being taken, though from the angle, I believe Pamela is taking the photo.

**_Please take photos when she figures out she spent the day with Hiddleston. _**

**_Here's the other ones she sent me. She takes stealth photos._**

The two photos pop in. The first one is of Tom in front of Westminster Abby. He's got both hands out to the side and is wearing a familiar expression. In the background, several people are also snapping his photo as he's making a scene.

Or it's because on his shoulder is the brightest and largest orange tote bag I've ever seen.

I sigh loudly.

"Is that Hiddleston?" Martin asks, leaning closer to see what has gotten my attention.

"Yes. He's showing off for her."

"Who?"

"Pamela. Cricket's friend. The one who is currently trapped in London with Tom Hiddleston."

"Ah, a young women's dream," Martin sighs, chuckling. "What is he doing there?"

Martin makes a strange face. I turn the phone back to me and realize Door's done something to other photo.

I tap the photo to make it bigger.

And burst out laughing.

"Ten minutes you two," one of the crew says, pausing a moment to glance between Martin and myself.

"Look at this," Martin says, taking the phone and holding the phone out to her.

The crew member bursts out laughing. "Where'd you find that?"

"Cricket," Martin and I say together.

(It's become rather well known by the entire crew that my new friend is a source of entertainment with her randomness. Give her a photo and she'd make any Sherlockian proud with how bizarre and random she can be. Together, we're somewhat dangerous. I'm pretty sure we made Martin cry with laughter with the things we came up with for the grape photo we took during read throughs.)

(I also always refer to her as Cricket when speaking with people at work. It is her professional name. Even if she's not…behaving all that professional…)

"Will she ever stop?" the crew member chuckles.

"Likely not."

"We'll be ready in five, now," she says before walking off.

I take the phone back from Martin and stare at the photo of Tom. He's holding the gigantic orange tote and staring at it in mass confusion.

It is the most orange purse I've seen and clearly a Cricket Heidi creation.

If Tom's expression while staring at the monstrosity wasn't enough, Door's added the following text: _I am Loki of Asgard and I am burdened with a glorious purse_.

And oh, is it a glorious purse.

"Hey, we gotta give her something new to keep her focused on Sherlock. Stick these in your eyes," Martin orders, pulling my earbuds out of the pocket of my coat. "I did grapes, you'll do earbuds. It'll be amazing!"

How the hell did those get in there?

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

"I think that girl is having a heart attack," Pamela whispered, pressing herself into Tom's side so he could hear her. She turned and looked over his shoulder— something she could only do because he was leaning on the railing that went around the pod of the London Eye and his shoulder was lower than her eyes for once.

Tom didn't need to turn around to know the teenager who was with her family behind him had realized who was trapped in the glass pod with her. He'd heard her squeal, fumble with her mobile and her mother telling her to leave him alone at least fifty times before Pamela had taken note. He resolutely remained facing the city, gazing out as they slowly climbed upwards into the sky. He was now not looking at the city, but mostly at the other pods as they were on their way down.

"Maybe you should, uh," Pamela's voice failed her suddenly. Tom straighten, turning to find the girl was right behind him and looked like a scared cat.

"Hi," she breathed. "Ca-ca-ca-can I have a photo?"

"Emily," her mother chastised, looking alarmed her daughter had escaped to the other side of the pod.

"Of course, darling," Tom said, extending his arm out to indicate the girl could come forward. "Pamela, sweetheart, could you?"

Pamela held out her hand for the mobile. He watched her carefully. She didn't seem upset, overwhelmed or at all bothered by the interruption. His fan, on the other hand, startled. She stared at Pamela as if she hadn't noticed the woman before. Pamela gave the girl a smile.

"Th-th-thanks," the teenager stuttered, quickly reverting to excited fan. She scampered over to Tom and stood next to him. He could feel her vibrating as he put her arm around his shoulder.

"All right, say cheese," Pamela said, holding up the mobile.

The mobile made the shutter noise. Pamela stared at it for a moment, then looked up and asked, "Another?"

"Another," Tom agreed as the girl nodded.

Pamela snapped three more before she extended the phone to the teen.

"Thanks," the girl breathed.

"Oh, no problem. What was your name?" Tom asked, even though he had heard her mother use it often.

"Emily," she said in a rush. "We're on vacation. I didn't think I'd see anyone famous. I've been to LA and New York a hundred times and have never met a famous person before, let alone one—"

She suddenly stopped talking, turning bright red. Tom smiled. Pamela was still holding the mobile out for the teen, who was staring at Tom. Tom took the phone from Pamela.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me," Tom said, extending the phone to the girl. Suddenly, Pamela thrust a map of the Underground at him. She reached into the zipped pocket on the left side of her chest and produced a pen. Tom grinned at Pamela, taking the map and pen, quickly singing it for Emily.

"Oh, thank you, Tom!" Emily exclaimed, taking the map and her mobile.

Tom smiled, "You are most welcome, darling."

Emily's mother loudly called her attention and Emily excused herself. Pamela smiled, then turned to stare out the glass at the skyline of London as they sunk closer to the ground.

"We ought to take a photo. No one will believe you spent the afternoon with someone famous if you fail to have evidence," Tom joked.

Pamela smiled at him, shaking her head. "I'll just take a photo of you."

Before he could react, a white iPhone appeared out of nowhere. It vanished as quickly as it'd appeared.

"What was that?"

"Stealth photos. It's a talent of mine. I've been taking photos since we left the Tube station. Hence why you're still carrying the Purse of Blindness."

Tom startled, realizing he indeed still had her overly large purse over his shoulder. And had since she'd shoved it at him shortly after they'd come out of the Tube station.

"Oh my," he muttered.

Pamela grinned up at him before turning her attention back to the skyline, making no move to relieve him of her bag. She leaned forward and stared downward into the Thames. Tom hitched the tote bag on his shoulder and glanced around the pod. The teenager stared at Pamela, looking somewhat jealous and a bit envious. Tom had a feeling he'd have to deal with some photos of them together and rumors of a new girlfriend.

Or simply the fact he'd taken to carrying around the most orange bag he could have been caught with.

He looked down at Pamela as he noticed the teenager raise her phone up again. She was aiming it in their direction. Tom moved to box Pamela in, thus shielding her from any cameras in the pod (the fact the orange bag swung down also helped). He doubt anyone would be able to get a picture of Pamela's face unless they got into their faces— or even noticed she was with him.

He felt Pamela tense up for a moment.

"You owe me for making me carry this horrid tote bag around all afternoon," he whispered into her ear.

He felt her shiver and grinned.

"But you've been doing such great advertising for Door's shop," Pamela said in a level voice. "I sent her photos each time I've managed to pick up some free wi-fi this afternoon."

Tom groaned and banged his head on the glass above Pamela's head while she quietly laughed.

* * *

"My feet are killing me," Pamela muttered as she rammed into him. She glared over her shoulder at the commuter who'd attempted to run her over. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, don't worry about it, darling. Here."

Tom put an arm around her and pulled her closer to him so people would stop trying to knock her over. She stiffened for a moment, but allowed him to keep her in his personal space.

"Have you heard from Ben today?"

"Uh, no. I don't have any cell service here," she all but shouted up at him over the din of the station. "I only can use the phone when I find some free wi-fi to send messages through Skype. I used a pay phone to call Benedict last night."

"Well, I believe they were only shooting during the daylight hours. It's getting dark," Tom commented. "I'll drop you by his flat and stay if he's not there. And order you food. I doubt Ben's got anything to eat other than toast and eggs."

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I can eat eggs. Or figure out how to order take out."

"Do you know where you are?"

"London."

"I believe my point is made. And it's no trouble at all."

"You're like the nicest guy in the world, you know that?"

"Bless you, but I assure you I'm not."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I've got a three hour block off before they want to start the night filming for Baker Street. Seeing I haven't eaten anything substantial all day, I head home to make dinner. The car drops me off and I hurry into the flat.

It's empty, as I figured it would be. Quickly I shed the clothes I wore to work, throw new ones on, grab a hat, a different coat and head to the corner store for some food. I know I've got nothing in, as I hadn't planned on being around for any meals whilst in town.

I hadn't known I'd have a guest. Even if she's been adducted by Hiddleston.

I frequent the store near my flat enough, I am able to get in and out without issue. I'm always thankful when this occurs because I feel normal.

I enjoy feeling normal.

I let myself back into the flat and begin to try to remember where the pots are when my phone buzzes. I yank it out and see an unknown number that is not actually a number. I debate on answering for a moment.

"Hello?"

Curiosity killed the cat and I'm a dead cat.

"Ben! Is Pamela around?"

"No. She's not here," I say, letting out a sigh.

It's Door. Of course it's Door. Calling from Skype— that always shows up as some sort of strange sequence of numbers. She's called me a few times, I ought to know when it looks weird, it's Door.

"She's got no clue who she spent the day with, does she?"

"That she's with Hiddleston? I don't know. I didn't get a chance to tell her his last name. I only said Tom," I admit. "She didn't seem to know the back of his head— though, you had no clue who I was till I took my sunglasses off."

"I'm never gonna live that down, am I?" she laughs.

"I doubt it. I thought you were the big Hiddles fan," I tease. "Shouldn't she know the back of his head?"

"I'm a fan of his work," Door reminds me, her voice serious suddenly. "She's a fan of his face."

"His face?"

"Fine. His hair. Specifically, his hair as Magnus Martinsson," Door says.

I have no idea what Tom's hair looked like when he played this Magnus person. I am going to go out on a limb and guess it did not look as it does at the moment.

"I'm not jealous of the fact she got to spend the day with him other than the fact she spent it in London of all places," Door insists. "What are you doing? Don't you have location filming today?"

"I have a three hour block off and came home for tea," I tell her, finding the sauce pan I was looking for.

What is it doing over here? I don't remember storing the pots clear across the kitchen. That is rather stupid. They ought to be under the hob. Or above the hob. There seems to be an oven under the hob.

I could store them in the oven. I don't use it.

"Tea. Oh, how I miss tea time," Door says fondly. "You know, I vaguely knew you two were friends but it never occurred to me he'd be around when I sent her over. You could have told me you two were hanging out when I asked last night."

"He popped by, fell asleep on my couch and didn't leave," I inform her. "I wasn't aware he planned to kip on the couch."

Door hums. She tells me she is highly annoyed when her husband does this to her instead of giving a proper answer. I doubt she realizes she does the same thing.

"You know…I was hoping you two would get some time to get to know one another," Door says, her voice sounding far off. "You know…like, uh…"

"Door, are you playing match maker?" I flatly ask.

Not that I'd mind. It was not like I had many dating prospects with my line of work.

Though, dating someone in the military— the American military— wasn't ideal.

Actually, at this point in my career, dating isn't ideal. I know I do not have time to date. I'd like to date. If I found the right person. But, it'd be hard.

Though, I guess it'd be like dating someone in the military…if I think about it. I'm gone a lot. Just not to war zones.

"No. Why would I do that?" Door lies. Badly.

"Because you're one of those married people," I snark. "Always trying to make other people as happy as you are."

Door hums again. "I'm a horrible person, aren't I? A relationship between the actor and the military pilot…sounds like a plot for a bad romance novel. One is super busy, jet setting around the world— the other is trapped in a war zone a million miles away. They long to be together, but circumstance gets in the way."

She sings the last line to a tune I don't know and then lets out a laugh, one that twists my heart for reasons I refuse to analyze.

"I need to stop reading romance novels," she mutters. "BASIL!"

I hear barking, something fall over and Door shouting at her barmy dog. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine the scene: the odd looking mutt barking her little head off at something out the window, then running when Door starts yelling. They chase each other around the room.

I chuckle softly, reopening my eyes as the door to the flat opens.

"Door, dearest, your friend has returned."

"Oh— go to bed! GO TO BED!" Door orders the dog (I hope). "I'll call you tomorrow to get the down low. Basil, go to BED! Bad dog! NO! Bye, Ben. Basil, bad do—"

She hangs up as I hear Pamela and Tom enter the flat. I slip the phone into my pocket and go to greet them.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Ben was already home by the time Tom and Pamela arrived back at Ben's flat. He was in the mists of making himself (and Pamela) dinner from food he clearly made appear out of thin air, as there was no evidence he had had time to run to the shops. Ben had been in such a hurry to get home, he'd worn Sherlock's coat home. It was tossed over the back of the chair near the door, along with a solid blue scarf.

"I was wondering where you'd gone," Ben commented as he entered the lounge. "I worried Tom took you hostage."

"I left a note," Pamela said, removing her coat. Ben instantly took it from her and hung it up in the closet near the front door. "Didn't you see it? I put it on the fridge."

"Oh, is that what that was?" Ben asked, pretending to be confused. "No, I saw it. I wasn't sure when you'd be back. Nor how to contact you, as I doubt you'd enjoy the international roaming charges if I phoned your mobile."

"You could have phoned me," Tom commented.

"I texted you."

Tom pulled his phone out. Sure enough, he had several texts he'd not noticed from Ben.

"Oops. Put it on silent."

Ben rolled his eyes. "So, you two've been out most of the day, then?"

Tom slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Yeah," Pamela said, turning to smile at Tom. Ben went back into the kitchen. "Tom was nice enough to show me around. Thank you again, by the way. You went above and beyond."

"He does that," Ben called from the kitchen. "We're all quite pleasant here in England."

"I've noticed," Pamela agreed, turning away from Tom.

Things began to crash in the kitchen. Tom peered over Pamela's head and into the kitchen to see Ben attempting to shove a rather large stack of pots into the oven.

"Well, I'm famished and I need to eat my rice and veggies," Tom said, loud enough it carried over Ben's attempt to bake his pots. "It was nice meeting you, Pamela. Thank you for entertaining me this afternoon."

"No, thank you. Really, Tom, I don't know how to even begin to express my…gratitude. And you were a good sport about the bag."

She beamed up at him. Full blown, eyes twinkling, teeth pleasantly showing, lips stretched wide smile.

Bloody hell.

"Oh, it was my pleasure," Tom insisted, matching her smile.

He noticed the shift, the subtle change in her face as she really saw him for the first time, really noticed _him_. Her smile fell a bit, her eyes got a wider and her breath hitched a little.

Tom smiled a little larger, breaking eye contact swiftly to look at the orange tote still living on his shoulder.

His heart was palpitating in his chest off beat.

"Speaking of the bag," he started, happy to hear his voice was normal sounding. He looked back up at her as he produced the orange monstrosity and extended it to her. "Please tell Door if she ever makes something…manly and less obnoxious, I'll happily carry it for her."

"Oh, uh, I'll let her know. She's branching into leather, so maybe she'll make something normal looking?" Pamela said, her own voice steady and normal, even if her body language was screaming flustered.

"I guess I'll see you after your trip to Los Angeles?" Ben asked, appearing in the doorway.

"Yes. Of course," Tom agreed, tearing his eyes off the small woman before him. "Best be on my way. I've got an early morning."

"Laters," Ben said, turning and going back into the kitchen.

Pamela fidgeted with the orange bag till she dropped it on the ground. It landed with a resounding thump.

"What the hell is in there?" she muttered, staring at the bag.

"I might have put a bottle of water in there," Tom admitted. "I had it in my pocket."

Tom bent down and got the plastic water bottle he'd taken to carrying around with him out of her bag. He stood up.

"So, uh, nice meeting you," Pamela said, wrapping her arms around herself.

She took a few steps backwards, running into the chair with Sherlock's coat and scarf.

"The pleasure was all mine," Tom said, wearing a smile that he was sure revealed his inner turmoil. His feet didn't want to move away, he did not want to leave. He wanted to say something else, but didn't know what to ask, what to say, or what to do. His stomach urged him to high tail it out of there and deposit food stuffs into it, but his feet had no intention of moving.

"Twitter," he blurted out.

"Twitter?" Pamela asked, knitting her eyebrows together in confusion.

"I use Twitter. I could follow you," he rushed out with, his heart rate galloping into warp speed, his stomach protesting and his feet channeling cement blocks.

Pamela looked even more bemused and in a tone of voice that pretty much meant _does not compute_ asked_,_ "You want to follow me?"

"Yes. Of course," Tom insisted, then added as an afterthought, "I should follow Door as well."

Tom pulled the mobile out again, flicking through the lock screen and ignoring Ben's numerous texts in favor of opening Twitter.

"Um, yeah, um, Door…I got one when Door did. Neither of us really understand it, though, but, uh, sure. Um…don't remember my username."

Pamela fumbled with her own phone, dropping it and picking it up quickly. She entered the wrong password in a few times. Ben swooped into the room, took the phone and entered something into it before handing it back to Pamela.

"You're on my network now," he called, going back into the kitchen.

"Thanks," Pamela called, then hit the face of the phone. "Cirrus Black. All one word. I forgot that I picked that out."

"Sirius Black? That was available?" Tom asked, searching. There were a million and two accounts for Sirius Black.

"No. Uh, like the airplane," she said, chuckling in an embarrassed manner. "C-I-R-R-U-S. Black. I assume you can spell that, right?"

"Yes, I'm a galumptious speller," Tom assured with a wink. His finger flew across the screen of his phone and he found her instantly. He hit follow.

She laughed. "I haven't used it in ages. I mean, I check it occasionally— but as I said, I really don't get it."

She was staring at the mobile, frowning.

"Well, I guess I will tweet you later," Tom said, wondering what had gotten her attention on the phone.

"Yeah," she quietly said, slowly looking up at him. "Tom Hiddleston just followed me."

Tom grinned at her.

Pamela blanched.

"No way."

Tom knitted his eyebrows together, letting his grin slip from his face. "I told you I played Loki. Did you— did you not realize that was my last name?"

She looked like death warmed over.

"I don't know anyone's name except yours!" she exclaimed, dropping the phone on the floor. It bounced as it hit the edge of the rug covering the wooden floor. Tom watched it, almost transfixed till Pamela began shouting again. "And I only know who you are because Door's been following you since you first popped up on her radar!"

"When did I do that?"

"Before I met her! She is…" Pamela suddenly tugged her hair away from her scalp, looking a mite wild. "Some HBO movie she saw right before she started college. I don't remember. She recorded it and showed it to me, but she obsessively has followed your career since 2002."

"She didn't know who I was till 2005. I feel cheated," Ben complained, poking his head into the room. A smile tugged on his lips as he appeared, faltering only slightly when he noted the state Pamela had worked herself into. For the first time Pamela looked like how many people stared at Tom, yet at the same time she didn't. She looked completely freaked out as well as star-struck and a bit dazed.

She was also still deathly pale.

Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels for a moment. He put on a smile and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.

"Well, Door hides her monomania quite well," Tom offered, unsure how to react. He almost wanted to take back the whole Twitter debacle if it meant he'd have the old Pamela back— the one who failed to realize she was in Tom Hiddleston's mists.

"She doesn't, actually," Ben argued, looking concerned for the catatonic state Tom had rendered Pamela in. Ben smirked suddenly, his eyes glittering with a familiar twinkle. He pulled out his phone and took a photo of Pamela.

"Ben!" Tom chided.

Ben winked.

"Pamela?" Tom asked, eyeing her carefully.

Her mouth snapped shut and her shoulders rolled backwards and she stood up taller. Suddenly, she reverted into a creature Tom didn't recognize as Pamela. He had a feeling he was meeting the Air Force Captain for the first time.

"It was wonderful to meet you," she replied formally and stiffly.

She stuck out her hand, her face a mask of polite interest.

Tom felt something wither within him.

Tom shook her hand. There was one pump and she dropped his hand as if it were on fire. She took a few steps backwards and her mask shattered. Pamela reappeared as she ran into the chair. The action caused her to awkwardly step around the offending object. She continued to walk backwards, throwing out a "Goodbye," and fleeing the room in the most graceful way she could manage— meaning she tripped over her feet twice, ran into the coffee table, and collided the corner of the hallway.

Tom wasn't too fond of the Air Force Captain, but he did quite like Pamela— star struck or not.

Ben watched her hurry down the hall and remained silent till she slammed the door to the guest room. Slowly, Ben raised his eyebrows and looked back at Tom.

"You didn't tell her who you were?"

"She introduced herself as Pamela. So I said I was Tom. I told her I was well known due to Loki!" Tom exclaimed. "I assumed—"

"You know what Americans say about people who assume," Ben drawled, smirking at him.

"Oh, I know."

"I'm sure she dropped several hints she was clueless about famous people, correct?"

"Well, yes. But, she knew who Loki was and she'd seen that movie."

"Ask her who Iron Man is," Ben remarked, fiddling with his phone.

"Well, I can't do that now. She's locked away in her room."

"The answer won't be Robert Downey, Jr."

"What would it be?"

"The guy with the drug problem and she'll say it like a question. To her, up till a few minutes ago you were that guy who played Loki who happened to be named Tom. Up till she met me last night, I was that Elf Guy."

"Elf Guy?"

"She evidently thinks I look like an elf," Ben drawled, smirking. "Door had to inform her not to call me Elf Guy and drill into her head my name was Benedict. She still called me Elf Guy."

"She seemed to know my name all day. And she knew your name this morning," Tom said.

Ben shrugged. "I don't know. Why aren't you leaving?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"You have to go eat," Ben reminded him as Tom's stomach growled and prompted him to remember his need to eat.

"Okay. Uh, what is on your roster tomorrow?" Tom asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Ben studied him, cocking his head to the side. Ben's light blue-green eyes bored into Tom's blue ones as if Ben was trying to figure out some sort of secret Tom had been keeping.

Tom had no secret.

That he knew of.

"I've got a few street scenes in the morning to finish up," Ben said. "Then more night shots if we don't get done tonight."

Tom nodded, rocking back and forth on his feet. "So?"

"If you text me, I'll let you know what she's doing," Ben sighed, standing up and folding his arms across his chest.

He looked resigned.

"Oh?" Tom asked, pretending to be clueless.

"You are so transparent," Ben sighed.

"I am not."

"Uh huh."

"Well, I must be going. It was lovely to see you," Tom said, plastering a smile on his face. "We must do it again."

"You falling asleep on my couch ten minutes after arrival and sleeping till morning?" Ben quipped, shaking is head. "Just bugger off so I can feed my guest."

Tom did just that: he buggered off.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	5. Insert Cures Words Here

**_Insert Curse Words Here (Even Ones Door Made Up)_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

The knocking startled Pamela. She jumped ten feet into the air, falling off the bed where she'd chosen to hyperventilate and allow death from embarrassment to take her away to an early grave. She landed with a dull thud in a heap of ungraceful limbs. Pamela let her head fall onto the oriental rug that covered the worn wood plank flooring.

"He's gone," Benedict's voice sounded from the other side of the door.

Benedict had a lovely voice. It was deep— so deep Pamela was sure its resonance could be used to drill for oil at the South Pole. The fact he spoke with a British accent made Pamela admit that maybe Door wasn't mentally unbalanced because she was completely obsessed with all things British— especially the accent.

Door originally decided to give Benedict her attention due to the resonance of his voice. Benedict's voice was soothing, calming and made Pamela want to listen to him read the dictionary.

Pamela's nerves slowly stopped fraying. Her heart slowly stopped trying to gallop out of her chest.

And it was not because Tom Muthafracking (another Door word) Hiddleston was gone.

Oh, god.

Captain Pamela Jane Fitch had spent the whole muthafracking day with Tom Hiddleston.

(Who _did not_ have a great speaking voice. Who _did not_ have great hair. Who _did not_ sooth her nerves with that blasted smile of his.)

(Lies, all lies. Pamela was lying to herself.)

(Damn you, Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston.)

Out of all the so called important people Door insisted Pamela remember and know about Tom Hiddleston was the only one she'd paid any attention to due to the fact Pamela liked his hair.

Hair was important to Pamela.

_Wallander_ had been a milestone for Pamela due to the fact one of the characters had awesome hair. Pamela had sat through too many British dramas to count by the point _Wallander_ appeared on KLRN 9 on a rather overly hot Sunday, so when Door had sat her down to watch this odd Swedish crime show where everyone had British accents, Pamela gave it her usual level of attention till Door shouted, "It's Hiddleston!"

"Huh?" Pamela had blankly asked, looking up from reading the manual for operation on the T-1.

"Tom Hiddleston! From_ Gathering Storm_! I've told you all about him. I totally forgot he was in this! Oh, that's gorgeous! Brilliant!"

Pamela had blankly stared at Door before actually turning her attention to the TV.

And her world suddenly branched out passed the T-1 to include the curly mop-top head, clear blue eyes, and elegant, long fingered hands of Tom Hiddleston. The name jumped onto the iceberg in Pamela's head and refused to be knocked out by things like rudder speed, air speeds, or what the red light meant.

Tom Hiddleston claimed a corner of her iceberg and made himself comfortable.

"He's so going places, Pamela," Door had insisted as they watched. "He's got _it_. Plus, there's the added bonus of the toothsome looks. Rghuhseuh."

(Rghuhseuh wasn't a word. It was simply a noise Door often made that actually had no meaning or context. She used it when she was excited, drooling, mad, confused, upset, sick, sad, or amazed. It was an all around noise made when she couldn't actually make up a word to fit the situation.)

And so, Pamela started to pay attention to Door's obsession with Tom Hiddleston— if only to watch his hair.

And what awesome hair he had in _Wallander_.

Loki did not have awesome hair. (Actually, none of the other roles Pamela has seen him in stood up to _Wallander_ hair.)

Thus, Pamela never bothered to make the connection when the beautiful stranger she met in Ben's kitchen had told her he was named Tom and had played Loki. She had clearly failed to take note of Tom Hiddleston's name during the opening credits (if it appeared, she couldn't be bothered to remember).

Pamela blamed Door for this lack of knowledge that Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had appeared in two BIG movies. Door had made sure (even though she was in Alaska) that Pamela saw that movie with the guy with the nose that muthafracking Hiddleston appeared. Just last week, Door had forced (via Skype) Pamela to watch this overly depressing movie with another British chick that took place in the 1950s.

Door constantly talked about muthafracking Hiddleston but had failed to mention in the past three years he was in _Thor_ and _The Avengers_— movies Pamela had SEEN. In the THEATER.

AND SHE HAD LIKED THEM.

(For what they were, not for the same reason Door likely enjoyed them— one did not believe Door when she said she liked something for what it was if it contained muthafracking Hiddleston. By default Door liked everything he did and had since 2002. Hell, she liked that depressing movie and Pamela wanted to gouge her eyes out when she'd watched it.)

Today, though, failing to _recognize_ Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston was NOT Pamela's fault.

He didn't LOOK like Tom Hiddleston with the stubbly facial hair, the short kind of dark blond messy SHORT hair. His ears kind of stuck out. Tom Hiddleston's ears didn't— as far as Pamela could remember— stick out like the man she'd met in the kitchen ears did.

His hair was ALL WRONG.

Then again, his hair was usually wrong. Except in _Wallander_.

"Thanks," Pamela called out, remembering she had to respond to Benedict or he might think she'd offed herself.

"Food is ready," Benedict said, retreating back down the hall.

Pamela dragged her hands through her hair and took several deep breaths.

"Moron," she muttered to herself.

She left the room and headed for the kitchen. Benedict handed her a plate of hot pasta and offered her a smile.

"So, you just spent the day with Tom Hiddleston— something a multitude of females and some males would like to do— and had no idea! What is with you and Door not realizing when you're talking to famous people?"

"Huh?"

"Door didn't tell you? She had no clue who I was till I took my sunglasses off. And I talked to her. Most people figure out who I am once I start talking," Ben laughed, motioning for her to sit down at the bar.

Pamela eased up onto the bar stool, feeling tried in every inch of her body.

"She didn't even tell me she met you. I read it on her blog," Pamela replied. "I didn't even realize how…close you two had gotten till I called her the other day to complain about staying on benches for another night in a fit of insanity."

"Why were you staying in benches?"

"Well, the first night, it was because I'd gotten in too late to really find a hotel. The second time was because I was at the wrong airport and thus missed my plane and just decided to stay there. Then, when I finally got to London, I missed my plane back home and well…you know that part of the story."

Pamela poked at the pasta with her fork.

"Tom was quite…baffled," Benedict offered after the silence had clearly gone on too long for him. "I figured you had likely made it clear you had no idea who he was even if he was Loki."

Pamela rolled her eyes. "There are a million Toms out there. It's a rather common name. And he didn't give me his last name…so, even if he'd had Loki hair, was dressed as Loki, I'd never put two and two together. He'd be that guy with the ears who played Loki. He didn't even look like Tom Hiddleston to me all day. Just Tom the Guy with the Ears."

"Hmmm," Benedict hummed, appearing amused. "How's Basil?"

Pamela snapped her head up and cleverly asked, "Huh?"

"Door's dog."

"I haven't seen Basil since I left Del Rio four years— or three years ago. Man, my head is muddled. I feel like someone rearranged my penguins on my iceberg. Or switched it out with someone else's iceberg…"

Pamela rubbed her temples.

Benedict chuckled. "Ah, the penguin on the iceberg analogy."

Pamela snapped her head up. Benedict smiled and explained that Door had written a whole blog entry on the penguins diving off the iceberg as an explanation to why pilots forget things like birthdays, holidays and anniversaries during training.

Or that time her husband's roommate made chocolate covered strawberries.

(Only Door would remember a random detail like that. Door remembered what she was wearing when she started high school junior year— of course she'd remember Jason's roommate making chocolate covered strawberries and expect Jason to remember.)

"Or two major films Tom Hiddleston has appeared in," Benedict added quietly at the end of his explination.

Only, Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had his own freaking corner on her iceberg.

How had she not filed away two of his most MAJOR roles?

How could she have NOT seen Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston in that man's face?

(Oh…that face…)

"It was actually the entry that got her noticed because I suggested we use that instead of deleting things from a hard drive— which is what Sherlock used when he explained why he didn't know the Earth went around the sun," Benedict went on, choosing to ignore Pamela's stony state of being.

Pamela glanced at the man next to her— another famous actor. A guy whose last name had been turned into a freaking verb (according to Door), yet till yesterday Pamela only knew him as Elf Guy.

Maybe it wasn't such a hard thing to believe when faced with the only celebrity crush she'd ever entertained, Pamela had no idea who she'd been standing next to all afternoon?

"Urg. I feel so jet lagged, but I haven't even moved over that many timezones."

"I believe when you're traveling for work and actively working your mind is more in gear than when you're sleep deprived whilst on holiday," Benedict offered. "Time zones work differently when you're actively engaged in something important."

"Point," Pamela agreed, but then shook her head. "But, I'm a pilot. I'm never in the right timezone. And jumping over one shouldn't knock me over dead like this jump from Paris to London seems to have done."

And make her a space cadet was left unsaid.

"Ah, but you've got stress from the…mishaps you've suffered on this holiday," Benedict kindly pointed out. "You're stranded without a plane to fly, a hotel room arranged, and you aren't on a military base."

"True," Pamela conceded. She chuckled, spinning pasta on her fork. "There was never a time I regretting taking Spanish more than when I got stuck in France for two days before managing to catch the train to London."

Pamela laughed, remembering her days trapped in middle of nowhere France. She'd been unable to find anyone who spoke English (or at least she could understand) in the tiny town she'd gotten stranded in. Hence why she somehow wound up on a bench in Paris instead where she ought to have been: on a flight home to the US.

Never had had she been so happy she'd padded in an extra five days and packed a week's worth of extra underwear. While most people laughed at her overpacking socks and underwear during their missions, now she felt like shoving it in their faces.

"I'm almost glad I waited till now to do the big European tour. I mean, if this had happened when I was in college or before I'd gone to college, I think I would have self destructed."

Benedict raised his eyebrows upward. "You mean you've been mellowed by the military?"

"Yeah. Crazy, I know. You really just gotta go with the flow. You roll with the punches or you'll go insane. Door's like made to be a military wife, ironically. Most people get frustrated not knowing where they're going, when and for how long. As long as she has her sewing machine, computer and access to PBS, she doesn't care."

"Hmmm," Benedict hummed. "That does sound like her. At first I thought she was pretending to be so blase about all the unknowns, but she's not."

"Yeah, she helped mellow me out a lot during pilot training."

"Was that when you first met?" Benedict inquired.

"Well, I met Jason when we did pre-pilot training in Colorado. We were in the same class and were both heading to Del Rio roughly at the same time. I was in the class behind him. They had a house by the time I got there and I had no desire to live in the dorms, so mostly crashed at their house illegally."

"Really?"

"Yeah, uh, they lived on base and you weren't supposed to take lodgers," Pamela admitted, chuckling. "I got an apartment in town, but I was hardly there. I mostly crashed in their guest bedroom."

"Ah," Benedict said, nodding his head.

Pamela twisted the last of her pasta around her fork and stuck it in her mouth.

"Jason warned me that they're switching up assignments, so I might not be trapped in Del Rio for three years with them," Pamela said after she'd swallowed.

"Is that a good thing or bad thing?"

"Have you been to Del Rio?"

Benedict chuckled, picking up a roll and buttering it. "I cannot claim to have graced Del Rio with my presence."

"Don't. No one wants to go to Del Rio," Pamela insisted. "Well, I'm sure someone wants to go there or it'd not be there, but I sure as hell don't want to go there. Nor would you, unless you like…dirt holes."

"Holes filled with dirt are better than holes filled with glass shards."

"Point."

"It won't be that bad, I'm sure."

"Well, I've been there before and lived to tell the tale," Pamela offered, pushing the remnants of her meal around on the plate. "I simply…never mind."

"What?"

"I was hoping when the assignments came down at my base, they'd be…well, better than what had been coming down. Like, I wanted to keep flying the C-17. I love that plane. I love flying it. I like the places it's based. Hell, I'd go to the Pilot Meat Packing Factory!"

From Benedict's rather blank look, she assumed Door hadn't mentioned the nickname Jason has assigned the base in South Carolina.

"It's…well, it's a competitive place for pilots and there's a lot of them based there. It's also in South Carolina, somewhere I'd rather not be located. I'm a cold weather being."

"So is Tom," Benedict offered quietly before saying louder, "I enjoy warm weather to an extent."

"Humidity sucks," Pamela stated flatly, trying to ignore how her cheeks heated up when Benedict had brought up Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston.

Pamela's stomach clenched around her meal. She couldn't figure out if it was a pleasant sensation or not. Instead, she went back to talking.

"Del Rio is hot and humid. It shouldn't be humid, but from how the weather patterns flow from the Gulf of Mexico and the mountains in Mexico, the stupid place is humid and yet doesn't get any good storms. I heard all about these massive Texas thunderstorms and never saw a single thunderstorm the year I was there. Total let down. Then I moved to Seattle and it rained all the time and was humid. But, at least it wasn't hot. Well, when I was actually there it wasn't ever hot."

"You are really hung up on humidity."

"Of course I am. I hate frizzy hair. And I'm from Colorado," Pamela explained. "It's dry there."

"Dry? I thought it snowed."

"Well, it doesn't get humid, really. The air is so dry you need a couple gallons of lotion a month so your skin doesn't crack. Those were the days…"

Benedict gave her a look that told her she was crazy.

Normally, she'd argue her point more, but she was going to just agree with him she was insane.

Clearly, she'd left her brain somewhere in Europe.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

The computer is ringing.

"Your computer is ringing."

"I noticed, Jason."

"Are you going to answer it."

"I don't know. I'm kind of scared at the moment."

"Why?"

"Pamela spent the day with Tom Hiddleston and I don't think she realized it."

"Wait. He's the one you're obsessed with."

"Tom Hiddleston is the only actor Pamela knows by name," I remind my clueless husband. "Well, when I say know…"

I pull the laptop towards me. We're eating dinner on the couch (as the table is covered in leather) and the idiot dog seems to think she's going to get some of my pizza if she sticks her nose in my lap as I try to get the laptop.

"Mine, not yours. You ate dinner, Tripod," I tell her, as she's standing on three legs for some reason.

I manage to get the laptop without giving the dog my dinner.

She looks so crushed. Poor dog.

I see Pamela is indeed ringing me. At midnight her time. Shouldn't she be sleeping?

I had been rather shocked when she'd sent me the pictures earlier today. First off, where had she gotten service to send them? She didn't have an international plan. Though, maybe she did? I don't know. She had been unable to use her phone during the rest of her trip, why was she using it now? They came in through the texting menu not through Skype.

I wonder if she knows she sent off international texts this afternoon?

Anyways, I'd been shocked when the first picture of Hiddleston appeared. Especially since he was carrying the bright ass orange test bag. It was one the bags I'd attempted with waterproof canvas.

It had been a total Walpurgis Night to put together. The bag was meant to be a tote bag aimed at teachers. It was HUGE, spacey and filled with pockets.

Nightmare I tell you. A total, utter, completely screamtastic torment.

I never made another one.

Since it was sitting around when we were packing to leave Del Rio, I gave it to Pamela because she needed something waterproof in Seattle to carry her groceries. I thought the super orange bag with the failed print interior was PERFECT for this endeavor. (I had tried to create my own fabric pattern and wasn't happy with the outcome.) Pamela is super GREEN when it comes to feeding herself and her life in general. (I think it's because she kills the environment for a living as a pilot.) What better way to be green than to use the bag I'd just throw away to carry your groceries in the rain?

I didn't know she was going to take the freaking tote bag to Europe then hand it to Tom Hiddleston!

If I had known that, I'd never have given it to her. That bag is fugerific.

"Hello, darling. How are you this fine evening? Or morning, should I say?" I ask in a fake British accent. (My accents are somewhat horrible. Any accent I try to do winds up sounding like a weird and bad mix of Russian and French.)

"I hate you," Pamela hisses at me through her teeth.

Jason chuckles. I slug him in the shoulder.

"Hi, Jason," Pamela says. "I guess I'm on the computer."

"Yeah. The laptop rang," I admit. "Not the phone."

Pamela cursed rather colorfully. Basil cocks her head to the side, looking confused at the noise the computer had taken to making.

"So, how was your afternoon in London. I adore the pics you sent me," I say, trying to be conversational.

"I hate you," Pamela reiterates.

"I know, darling."

"Don't call me that," she hisses.

"Man, you've pissed her off," Jason comments, stuffing his mouth full of food.

I slap him.

"Why didn't you tell me WHO HE WAS!" Pamela shouts. "I didn't know till he followed me on Twitter!"

"He followed you on Twitter! No fair! You don't even like him passed his hair in _Wallander_!"

"SHUT UP!"

I fall quiet. Pamela lets out an alien noise. Basil barks, heading for the window. She continues to bark till Jason hauls her out of the room for timeout.

"Where's Ben?" I ask once Jason is in the other room.

"Night shoot. He left after we ate. He reorganized his kitchen before I got back. It at least makes sense now. I wonder if one of his friends pulled a prank on him. This morning, nothing made sense," Pamela says.

"Uh…okay."

I don't know anything about kitchens. That's Jason's deallio.

"Well, what the hell happened?" Jason asks, butting into the conversation as he sits back down. "I know you met this dude today that Door's obsessed with—"

"I am not obsessed with him!" I shout. "I appreciate his acting!"

"— and you had no idea who he was. How'd you not know him? Even I know what he looks like. Though, I can't always remember his name."

"TOM HIDDLESTON! How is that so hard?"

"He doesn't look like Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston in person!" Pamela shouts.

"How can he not look like Tom Hiddleston? He _is_ Tom Hiddleston. He looked like it in the photos you sent me," I say, picking up my cell to look at them again. (I've got photos of Tom Hiddleston on my phone!) I show them to Jason, who shrugs at me, eyeing me like I'm mental.

"He does not! He's…he's…he's got facial hair. And he's not all that blond! And his hair is all short," Pamela says. "And…he's got ears."

"You thought he was earless before?" I laugh.

"He certainly doesn't look like Loki, which was the only role he gave me after telling me he was an actor. He was surprised I didn't know him. And no one called him Hiddles or Hiddleston or anything other than Tom all day."

Her voice is raising with each word she says. Soon, it'll be so high only Basil will hear.

"Okay. Calm down. Why are you so upset?" I ask.

I had expected her to be annoyed, but she's seriously freaking out. Besides the register, her voice keeps cracking. Jason is frowning up a storm beside me, while also glaring at me like this is all my fault. Our Pamela is calm, collected and level-headed and I've turned her into a panicked, frantic idiot.

She's like kind of acting like Martin from _Cabin Pressure_ at the moment.

"Idon'tknow," she mutters stringing the words together. "He'sreallycuteandIthought…"

"She's stringing her words together," Jason stupidly says.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I'm tired," Pamela tries. "And…Jason go away."

Jason shrugs. He gathers up the plates and goes into the kitchen. He bangs around then heads into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Basil starts to talk. (I'm serious. I think sometimes when she makes these really strange noises she's trying to mimic talking. Only, it doesn't work, as we've no idea what she is trying to tell us.)

"He's gone."

"Dorothea Zephyrine Judoc-Abercombie I hate you with a flaming passion," Pamela starts. "I know why you sent Benedict after me, but how could you let me gallivant around town with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston! I told you what I thought about him this afternoon! You knew I thought he was cute! I sent that first message to you hoping you'd know who he was and I wasn't about to embarrass myself! That was why I gave him that horrible bag you gave me. He's famous! You should have TOLD ME!"

"I gave that bag to you to lug groceries around Seattle not hand to Hiddleston!" I argue, ignoring the fact she had indeed told me she thought he was really cute and kinda liked him. I was slightly distracted by the fact she'd asked me who he was. First, I was like why is Pamela out with someone she doesn't know. Then I was like, how can she not know it's Hiddleston. She even KNOWS his name— though I guess not his face.

Then, well, I couldn't stop laughing.

I am a bad friend. Bad Door. No treats for you.

"I didn't know you'd hand it to Hiddleston and except me to use it as an ad for the shop," I say finally after the silence has stretched out too long between us.

Pamela lets out a frustrated noise.

"Groceries? I don't buy food with that thing! I didn't know you used purses for that."

"Oi with the poodles already," I sigh. "It is a tote. Granted, I made it for teachers to lug around their junk, but I figured you could fit a week's worth of food in it! I mean, you like having reusable shopping bags! It's part of your whole save the world campaign since you kill it with jet fuel."

Pamela sighs.

"And I'll use it for the shop. The photo. I'll use it. I already posted it on the blog. If my luck holds, it'll go viral!" I tell her. "And then I'll have to start making that damn bag."

Oh no. I can see the end of my life and it involves violent orange purses…

"Oh god," Pamela mutters.

I hear her slam her head into something.

"Sorry," I apologize. "Ben really didn't tell you he was Hiddleston?"

I still can't believe Ben only got out his first name before Pamela slammed the door in his face.

"Benedict told me his name was Tom, but I didn't catch the last name if he said it. I didn't think much of it," Pamela admitted. "I mean, I know you're obsessed with Muthafracking Hiddleston, but I never made the connection till I saw the two names together. God, I'm stupid. Why don't you ever go on about _Thor_ or _The Avengers_?"

I frown. "I don't think those are everything he's about. Plus, while he's awesome in those, he's in so many other wonderful things—"

Pamela cuts me off before I can really get going. "Shut up."

"Okay."

Silence falls.

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.

While I sent her over there to get to know Ben and maybe like him (yeah, Ben's right, I'm one of those married people who want everyone else to enjoy the same happiness I've got going for me), Pamela went and fell for Tom Hiddleston without knowing he was Tom Hiddleston. Pamela had known he was famous (hence the photos sent to me this morning), but she'd failed to realize he was the guy she hairgasimed over on my couch for several weeks.

Oh….no. Oops.

No wonder she's freaking out. Man, if I had met my celebrity crush and failed to realize they were who they were…I think I'd be freaking out as well.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Benedict talked her into accompanying him to set the next morning. He told her it'd be boring, but Door might hunt her down and strangle her if she failed to go to set at least once while she was stranded in London.

"You don't have to hang around all day, but you must get a few photos for her," Benedict cajoled.

Pamela was still slightly pissed at Door in the light of day, but went along to distract herself from what a fool she'd made of herself the previous day. She'd been an idiot in front of Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Jason Abercrombie and Door the Idiot.

Pamela also did not feel like dealing with trying to get a flight home just yet, so Pamela had tagged along to the set of _Sherlock. _

So, that was why she'd spent the past three hours standing around outside the block of buildings somewhere in London. They'd started out in front of what was supposed to Baker Street. Now they were in front of a line of shops nearby. They'd filmed a scene that must have been a huge spoiler, as everyone in the crowd watching gasped much to the crew's annoyance. Benedict had mentioned they were also going to a Tube station after they finished whatever they were doing in front of the shops.

Pamela had no idea what was going on. She couldn't even remember what had happened in the last season of _Sherlock_.

She couldn't remember if she'd watched it with Door or not. She knew she'd seen the first season. There was a pool. And it caused Door to scream when it ended.

Hmmm, maybe Pamela hadn't seen the second season?

It was freezing. The actors all were given additional coats to huddle within between takes and the crew was moving so much between takes they didn't need the extra warmth. While Pamela was a cold blooded creature at heart, she was freezing.

She'd clearly not dressed properly. She was dressed in her trusty fleece The North Face coat she'd had since college. It'd never let her down till now.

Failure at life coat…maybe it was time for a new one?

"Cold?"

Pamela startled, looking above her head to find an older man with reddish hair looking down at her with a slightly amused expression.

"Uh, yeah. It wasn't this cold yesterday when I went out, but then again, I was on the move not standing around," Pamela offered. She smiled a little, trying to keep the scowl off her face at remembering the fact she'd been out with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston and didn't know it.

How had she NOT known it?

Yeah, he lacked the utterly adorable curly blond mop and he was five years older.

She was such a moron.

That was what was bothering her the most. He was literally the only actor she paid attention to— if Door told her to watch something and said Tom Hiddleston, Pamela watched.

WHY had DOOR not mentioned Loki was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston?

How had she not REALIZED Tom was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston?

"Benedict said you were one of Cricket's friends," the man went on, drawing Pamela out of her mind. "I'm Mark."

"Mark?" she asked, taking hold of his extended hand.

His hand was warm as opposed to her ice block of a hand.

She had managed to loose her gloves at some point during her disastrous trip.

"Gatiss," he supplied. "Producer, writer and actor."

"Pamela Fitch," she offered. "Do you have a role on this show, or are you just…something else?"

He chuckled, dropping her hand. He put his own hands back into his pockets and smirked.

"I play Mycroft Holmes. I wrote the episode we're filming," he supplied, still smirking a little. "What do you think so far?"

"I have no idea why anyone would want to do this for a living," she admitted, deciding not to tell him she had no idea what was going on because she'd failed to watch season two.

Mark chuckled. "There is a lot of standing around, I admit, but I believe the whole process is what draws people— the process of story telling."

Pamela huffed. "It seems a lot for a three minute take."

She glanced around the filled street. There were fans across the street, crew in the street and the actors were huddled around the store front. Benedict was wearing a funny looking hat.

"They've been working on the same scene for, well, forever," she felt the need to explain when Mark didn't say anything. "And all that is happening is they are walking down the street. Or something. I'm not even sure. Why do you need a million shots of Benedict walking down a street in a funny hat? They've done it like a hundred various ways, going different directions, having the Hobbit looking fellow on the left then the right, then without the Hobbit guy and finally what is the point of that hat? I feel like I missed some sort of joke about the hat."

"The director has a vision," Mark offered.

Pamela shrugged.

"What do you do for a living, then?" he asked.

She looked up at him, suddenly aware she might have insulted the man. He did not appear insulted, though. Curious. He looked curious.

"I'm a pilot," she said.

"Ah, so if you don't get it right the first time, might not be a second time," he said, understanding in his tone.

Pamela nodded. "Correct."

"Mark!" someone called.

"Excuse me," he said with a bow of his head. "It was wonderful talking with you."

"Oh, you too," Pamela said.

Mark walked off, weaving his way through various crew members. Pamela turned and retreated towards where the where most of the crew was hanging around. She stopped and turned back to face the "scene." Benedict was sitting on some sort of box and texting away on his phone wearing a huge, puffy black winter jacket over the wool coat he wore as Sherlock. She could have gone over there and bugged him, told him she was going to wander aimless around London to get warm.

Not that this was a stellar idea. She had no idea where she was. That was why she was still here. She knew she was in London, but the ride to the set that morning had been a hazy blur as she'd not had coffee. (Benedict had his call time wrong and they were late. No one had been surprised.)

"Tea?"

Pamela looked down to find a cardboard take out cup under her nose. She slowly looked at the hand around the cup.

It was huge.

It had long fingers.

It was clearly attached to a man.

She slowly trailed her eyes up the arm to the shoulder and finally to the face (even though she didn't need to, as she was pretty sure by the voice who was trying to feed her tea).

"I wasn't sure how you took it, being American, but since you're here, you ought to try tea," he went on when she failed to respond.

Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston smiled at her and Pamela really wanted to kick him and run away.

"I, uh, I drink tea," Pamela heard herself say, taking the cup from him. She tried to take it so she wouldn't have to touch him, as she'd just turn beet red and have to later crawl into a hole and die.

She failed.

She brushed his fingers with her finger tips and felt completely idiotic, as the teenage girl who resided on the portion of the iceberg that had sheltered Tom Hiddleston squealed _OMG! TOM HIDDLESTON TOUCHED ME!_

He hugged her yesterday.

Did that weird European greeting yesterday.

He called her darling.

He'd had his hand on her back.

He'd put his arm around her.

Had pressed up against her back and caged her in when they were on the London Eye, surrounding her with his long arms and scent.

He'd freaking hugged her again before leaving last night.

This tiny brushing was nothing, yet the stupid teenage fangirl in her head went off like a tornado warning siren.

"Uh, er, uh, th-thanks," she stuttered like a complete moron.

She was twenty-seven years old— what the hell was her problem?

"I got you my favorite. Earl Grey. I didn't add anything, as I was unsure how you took it. You shouldn't drink it plain. I add a splash of milk to my own," he exclaimed. "I have sugar in my pocket and some of that powdered creamer, if you must."

She should have said something here, but nothing came out. She simply nodded and stared at the cup. He reached into the pocket of the slacks he was wearing, pulling out the pile of packets.

"Drinking a hot beverage might warm you up," he offered, his smile faltering for the first time.

Of course it did. She'd gone frozen statue on him.

"Oh, yeah, duh," she said intelligently. She held out her hand. He gave her the packets, looking a bit bewildered.

Pamela stared at the packets in her hand.

Tom took a pull from his own cup (a travel mug he'd clearly filled with hot water and his own teabag) and studied her for a moment.

"You take milk in your tea, don't you? You are insulted I brought artificial cream. I would be insulted as well, truthfully."

"What? No. Uh, I…well, I don't…uh, um, I drink, um, herbal teas," she stuttered out like an imbecile.

Pamela took a deep breath and pushed her nerves to the very back of her mind. Once she felt calmer, she opened her mouth again.

"Sometimes. Though, they all taste the same and like grass. I don't know why I drink them if they all taste like grass, but I always seem to have an abnormal amount of herbal tea in the cabinet. Door had some good flavored stuff when we lived in Del Rio that didn't taste like grass. I don't remember where she got it, but it was the highlight of her life for almost three months till it ran out."

And once the flood gates were open they did not close.

"Door takes milk in her tea. She doesn't like Earl Grey, though. Well, the stuff they sell in the States. She says it tastes like dishwater. She didn't expect it to, as she drank it over here when she lived in London for a year, but she won't drink it any longer. She loves Scottish Breakfast, which I guess it hard to find, which makes sense as Door likes it. She usually has to just drink English Breakfast. She likes Tetley or something. She'd rather drink PG Tips, but she can't see spending ten dollars on a box of tea, so she drinks something else. And you can only get it at the commissary. PG Tips, not whatever she drinks. Alaska wasn't into tea, I guess. When we lived in Del Rio, she'd always have something strange she'd ordered from somewhere online. It smelled kind of like coconuts. It was loose, like not in a bag. Well, it came in a bag, but the tea wasn't in little teabags, which—"

Pamela snapped her mouth shut and felt her whole face turn bright red.

She'd almost started talking about tea bagging— not something she wanted to hear about let alone talk about. (The fact she even knew about tea bagging happened to be a side effect of pilot training where the majority of the people there were male, fresh out of college and immature.)

She stared down at the top of the take out cup as if it held the secrets of life.

Actually, could it contain the secret to living life? She could use some help at the moment.

"Informative," Tom humored her, taking another sip of his tea. "I have noticed tea tastes…off across the pond."

"Door says it's because they mix the leaves differently. She usually gets loose leaf," Pamela repeated. "From this…tea company out of…some suburb. She's originally from Chicago. I mean, Chicagoland. Jason gets mad when Door claims to be from Chicago, as she's not from the actual city."

Pamela closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks flame with heat. When she opened them and peeked at Tom, she saw him nodding a slow smile appearing on his face. He turned away from her and looked out over the set, allowing her to collect her wits and come to her senses.

"Can you see anything from here, darling?" Tom asked, peering down at Pamela.

Instead of answering, she decided she to burn her tongue off with some Earl Grey tea. She managed not to sputter or grimace, a feat in itself.

It didn't matter, though, as Tom decided for himself she couldn't see due to her diminutive height, so he put his hand on her back and steered her closer to the action. Due to the fact he was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, no one questioned him on what he was doing there even though he lacked the badge Pamela was forced to wear and the crew all wore.

He was also not wearing a coat. A proper one, he was dressed in only a suit jacket that went with the suit pants he was sporting.

Why on earth was he wearing a suit?

They stood side by side in silence through the take. The director shouted "Cut!" and moved to speak to Benedict about his lack of something while walking down the street while wearing a funny hat. As clearly, he'd failed as this was the millionth take.

Man, she was cranky today.

Pamela took another burning sip, figuring she didn't need her taste buds. Tasting things was so yesterday.

"So, does it taste like dishwater?" Tom inquired.

"I dunno," Pamela admitted, looking at the cup.

It didn't offer up an answer.

"Not really," she lied, as she failed to taste anything, having given up her ability to taste.

The tea had a very distinctive smell, which was nothing like dishwater. And, how did Door know it tasted like dishwater? She didn't wash dishes so it was safe to guess she didn't drink dishwater. Then again, who did drink dishwater?

"Maybe it is simply an American thing, dishwater tea?"

Pamela shrugged, shifting on her feet. The director began shouting for quiet.

She was actually thankful to be stuck on the set. It was not the greatest place for a conversation.

Tom calmly pried the unused packets from her hand, which was still raised from when she'd taken them from him earlier. He offered her a smile as he pocketed them.

* * *

Tom was dressed in a suit and tie. It was navy and had rather large check pattern.

And he wasn't wearing a coat. Well, a proper coat. He had a suit coat on.

He must be able to produce heat insanely well.

Pamela was completely fixated on his lack of proper coat and had been for the past hour.

The director was finally happy with the Street Walking Scene of Doom and proclaimed it time to move onto the Tube Stop Scene. The crew began to scurry around while the director grabbed Benedict.

"Why are you in a suit?" Pamela finally asked as chaos broke out around them.

Tom glanced down at himself before looking back at her. "I didn't change after the morning interview I did. I did wash my face."

"Okay."

"Makeup," he supplied at her unsure tone.

Benedict noticed Tom (finally) and winked. Tom waved.

The director finished speaking to Benedict and turned his attention to the short dude Hobbit dude. He might have been in _The Hobbit_ for all Pamela knew. He kinda looked like a Hobbit— especially next to Benedict's tall, lanky form.

Benedict made a beeline for Tom and Pamela.

"Tom," Benedict greeted.

"Benedict, old sport! Great scene. You can really walk down the street," Tom teased.

Benedict rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't I know it. I'm sure it'll all end up on the cutting room floor."

Tom made a face. Pamela downed the rest of her tea, which was no longer scalding, but still tasted like nothing thanks to her useless tongue. She was quite sad it was now empty. Especially when Tom took the empty cup from her and tossed it in a trash can that appeared out of nowhere.

"Did you feed yourself lunch?" Benedict inquired.

"Yes, before I dropped by."

Benedict eyed what Tom was wearing, but did not comment. His eyes roved over towards Pamela. Benedict pulled out his phone from the puffy coat and said he'd have his PA get them a quick bite. Pamela claimed she wasn't hungry, but her stomach had another story to tell. Tom grinned at her, but put his hand on her upper back and turned her in the direction of a car that had randomly appeared.

"Why are you not wearing a jacket?" Benedict demanded as he opened the car door.

"I have a jacket on," Tom said, indicating to his suit coat.

Benedict gave him a look, but stood aside for Pamela to enter.

Pamela slid into the car, followed by Tom. Benedict got into the front seat and turned slightly so he could look at the pair in the back. Pamela tried to plaster herself to the door of the car, but the driver clearly had other ideas as the first turn the car took caused her to slide across the leather seat and into Tom's overly warm side. Tom's hand shot out and steadied her.

"Oh, you ought to belt yourself in, darling," he drawled, frowning at her.

Pamela turned a lovely shade of tomato and struggled with the seatbelt till it was fastened. She still kept sliding into Tom's side— he seemed to take up an awful lot of room.

They arrived at the next location, which was already set up somehow.

The trio got out of the car, which then vanished into nothing.

Magic. That was the only logical explanation for everything just appearing and disappearing. Magic.

"I've got a half hour," Benedict said, glancing at his phone. "Ah! Thank you."

"Hmmm," the woman hummed, eyeing Benedict. "The bottom one is yours. You didn't tell me what to get your guest, but figured they wouldn't want what you have to eat."

"Thank you, thank you," Benedict gushed, handing the top container to Pamela. The woman eyed Pamela, muttered something to Benedict and left.

Benedict led them over to some chairs and sat down. He began to eat at record speed, carrying on a conversation with Tom while Pamela silently ate the sandwich she'd found when she'd opened the container. Thanks to her burnt tongue, she had no idea what it tasted like.

"Filming's going to take the rest of the daylight hours," Benedict was saying when Pamela tuned back into the conversation.

"Are you trying to get rid of us?" Tom teased, smiling like a maniac.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Pamela," Benedict apologized. "I'm a horrid host."

"No, it's fine. I still need to call the airlines and get a ticket home. I have to report on Tuesday…"

Pamela trailed off, wondering what she ought to do. To call the airlines, she needed a phone that could make local calls. She opened her mouth to ask Benedict if she could get a ride back to his flat for the afternoon, when Tom literally jumped out of his seat.

"I'll look after her!" Tom volunteered. Loudly and a little too boisterously. "It would be quite rude of me not to."

He smiled down at her and Pamela stared back at him with wide eyes.

Oh crap-crappity-crap.

"NO! I can look after myself! I'll, uh, go to, uh, a cafe or something. I just have to look up the number— or look up tickets. Wi-fi. Do McDonald's have free wi-fi here? I forgot to check. But, I can just look it up on my phone. That will work. And I can entertain myself just fine."

She was babbling nonsense.

"You better stop her before she gets going," Benedict said, raising one eyebrow. "Mark told me about her impressive babbling skills."

Oh god. Someone had heard her babbling about Door and tea to Tom. Or had she babbled at Mark?

Oh, god…

Well, that settled it. Time to find a hole and die.

"Darling, we're not about to leave you on your own in a strange city depending on free wi-fi at McDonald's. Why would you want to sit in a McDonald's just to sort your travel arrangements?" Tom inquired, looking confused.

"Especially since I'd let you go use my internet at the flat," Benedict added, shutting his take out container. Someone magically appeared and took it from him.

Pamela opened and closed her mouth a few times, desperately missing her organized mind. Her mind had taken a vacation. All she could think about was the fact she could SMELL Tom. He smelled too good.

Oh my god. She knew what he smelled like.

Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had a scent and it was going to go live on the iceberg in the corner with the squealing teenage girl.

Yes. Pamela needed that hole. STAT.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. Yes. Internat. Flat," Pamela stated, not trusting herself to form sentences and being able to stop from spouting off too much information.

"I also have the internet," Tom announced. "I also have nowhere to be tonight. Well, other than at home to eat dinner at some point. I'm doing a video tomorrow for my final meal for the challenge. I'm going to eat a baked potato."

"Brilliant," Benedict muttered. "I've got to get going. What do you plan to do?"

Pamela felt a wave of panic inched into her somewhat full stomach. She stared at Benedict with large eyes.

"I'm sure I could get you—"

"Where are you flying to?" Tom interrupted before Benedict could finish.

"San Antonio," popped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

"Brilliant!"

"What?"

Tom pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number and shouted, "Cameron! My favorite person!"

Benedict slapped his forehead as someone shouted for him.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	6. Glitz, Glam, and Doolally

**_Glitz, Glam and Doolally with a Side of Potato_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I'm not sure what is going on.

Other than I've got too many orders to fill and not enough hands. I seriously need at least five more hands to complete any of this in a timely manner.

Glorious purse…

Me and my stupid sense of humor.

I mean, it'd already been done— Loki burdened with glorious purses. I saw it on Pintrest. So, it wasn't actually all that original of me, but…since making that STUPID picture, my orders are trying to kill me.

Has it even been twenty-four hours yet?

I don't even know. Is it Wednesday or Friday? Is it still April or did May finally show up?

I DON'T KNOW!

They all want that stupid purse! In blinding orange!

I am so….dumtaffic it's not even funny.

I don't even remember where the hell I got that material I made that first one. Likely Walmart. In Del Rio.

I am not going to Del Rio just to go to freaking Walmart. That doesn't even sell fabric any longer. (They phased it out while we were still living there. It was completely tragic on too many levels to even comprehend.)

Well, I am in Texas. They hunt here, so they likely will have something blinding orange around somewhere, right?

But…RHSKFJSODIUFSDKJFSD. I can't even be bothered to make up a word for how overwhelmed I am, y'all.

I need a brain exchange, please. I'm an idiot.

I must be taking Basil's Moron Pills again. Best stop that. Not good for business.

I really ought to talk to my mother. She sews. And getting a license in Illinois wasn't all that hard— if I can convince my mother to run the thing I'd have to in the local paper. (DuPage requires one to run an announcement in a local paper to make yourself legal.)

Can I operate out of two states like that?

I have no idea. Maybe I should talk to a JAG?

(Why do I always think of Tom Cruise when I think of military lawyers? Wait, wasn't he in a movie where he was a Navy lawyer? He was! Jack Nicholas shouted he couldn't handle the truth.)

(Yes, because thinking about that movie is going to solve my problems. Good job, Door. You've distracted yourself now. Bad Door.)

I'm sitting in a pile of leather and cotton on the floor of the apartment and I feel spent. I'm also not sure how long I've been sitting here. Time has lost all meaning since the Orange Purse Incident. I'm sure not many days have passed. Pamela's still not here. So, it must be only…Friday.

Oh god, it's only Friday. No, it's not Friday. Where is my phone?

OMG. It's THURSDAY. It hasn't even been twenty four hours!

I want to crawl into a ditch, curl up with a blanket and watch bad TV. Like really bad TV, the kind that requires no thinking at all.

Or, I want to invent some sort of machine and add at least twenty-four more hours to a day.

Or, I'd like to sew on ten more arms.

I need more sleep.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell the dog, who is mournfully staring at me from the carpet (she hates the wood floor, even if it is covered in leather and cotton and she can walk on those things easily).

She flops over onto her side and continues to stare at me looking pathetic. (Of course she is— it's what she does: looks pathetic. It's part of the reason everyone loves her. Oh, look at that poor tripod dog. Isn't she cute?)

(She's fooled them. It's how she got us. Standing there on her three legs, all alone in a fenced in area, begging for attention by looking pathetic. And then barking when people paid attention to her.)

(We should have known she'd be trouble from the get go— but she was so dirty and sad looking and a tripod. Of course we had to adopt her!)

(And boy was she dirty. We didn't even know she had white on her till we bathed her three times after we got her home.)

(And it's no wonder she hates baths…more than likely scared her for life within minutes of getting her into the house— even if she felt and looked a thousand times better after her first bath(s).)

(We got her at an adoption fair in San Antonio, BTW. She did not enjoy the three hour ride in the back of our Subaru— which we left in Alaska b/c the A/C broke when Jason was in Alabama and it totally sucked in Texas in the summer to race around in the racing station wagon.)

Oh, god. I've got off topic again and spent the last three minutes reminiscing about the dog!

I throw a scrap of leather at her.

It hits her in the head and stays there. Basil can't even be bothered to move it off her head.

Flopping forward into the pile of leather and cotton that has become the bane of my existence, I let out a scream.

Then I fall silent. The silence rings around me (silence always rings because I've got tinnitus and didn't know it till my mom was diagnosed when I was in high school— I just thought that was silence sounded like).

Then real ringing starts and I let out a short scream.

Oh, god. The ringing is getting louder and more ring sounding.

Oh. Wait.

The laptop is ringing.

I push myself into a seated position as the dog sits up, the scrap of leather falling of her head. She stares at the piece of leather as if she hadn't realized it was on her head in the first place.

Idiot.

I grab blindly for the laptop on the mess that was formerly the dining room table. It falls off the table and somehow I manage to catch it before it crashes to the ground. After futzing around with it, I see the call is coming from Pamela.

I answer.

"Good day, maiden!" I call out, plastering a not tired expression on my painfully tired face.

"Door."

"Pamela?"

"Door, I did something stupid."

I perk up instantly. "Oh, pray tell, dear Pamela."

Pamela never does anything stupid. I'm not sure she knows how to do stupid things. I'm the idiot, moron, person with a tiny brain in this relationship. I'm the barmy woman who lacks the mental skills to organize my sock drawer. (Seriously, my socks never match even if I pair them up after doing laundry.)

"I let Tom book me a ticket to LA," she whispers, looking around like she's waiting for him to leap out at her and attack her.

"You did what?" I ask.

I stick my finger into my ear to try to clear it out.

"I mean, I didn't realize what he was doing at first because I'm brain dead over here for some reason, but I let him book me a ticket to LA when he is going to LA on Friday night," she explains, her dark eyes still darting all over the place.

It clearly is not Friday, as Pamela is not on a plane and it's night where she is— great. It has been less than twenty fours since the whole Glorious Purse thing.

Bugger.

"Okay," I slowly say, trying to get my mind around what she told me. Five minutes pass before my head works out what she said. "Wait, wait a second. LA? Aren't the MTV Movie Awards this weekend?"

Pamela nods over, still looking like she's waiting for someone to snatch the computer she's using for the video chat away form her.

"Where the hell are you?"

"Tom's flat," she says. "Uh, we've, er, well, uh…he showed up to the _Sherlock_ set, and, uh, kidnaped me."

"He kidnapped you?"

"After burning off my tongue," she says, looking over her shoulder.

"He burned your tongue off then kidnapped you? Ben let him? Did you not ask to use his computer?" I ask, figuring this might be the reason for her bizarre, twitchtastic behavior.

"He gave me tea, which I then burned my tongue on. It was kind of sweet. I was cold and he brought me tea," Pamela says, sounding dreamy for a moment before going back to twitchtastic. "Ben had to work."

"Okay, why are you twitchtastic?"

"I am not."

I give her a look. She refuses to meet my gaze, choosing to have her eyes dart around like a laser pointer messing with a dog.

"So, you're going to LA, then? Why?"

"I don't know!"

I hear something in the background and Tom's voice greets someone cheerfully. Pamela jumps like a scared mouse. She turns around and stares at what I assume is the doorway off camera. Turning back to the laptop, she leans in closer and begins to whisper frantically at me.

"He wants me to go to the…that thing with him on Sunday! He's been trying all day to get a seat near him instead of in the back! I have to report on Tuesday! I can't do this! What is wrong with me?"

She yanks at her hair.

She kind of looks how I imagine I looked before she called: crazed.

"I am not like this! I do not simply go to the MTV Movie Awards! I do not do things without massive planning! I'm a pilot! I'm a captain! I'm in charge of the plane!" she yells, having giving up with the whole whispering thing.

She is also once again channeling Martin Crieff.

"Yo, dude, calm down," I urge, raising my hands to placate her.

She reels herself in and goes stiff.

"I didn't even know MTV was still a thing," Pamela admits, looking bewildered.

"Well, I guess it is," I say, sighing deeply.

Pamela's eyes begin to take in the background on my end and she frowns. "What the hell happened?"

I look around me. I'm still seated in a pile of leather, cotton and various odd and ends of purses.

It kind of looks like I waged a war and lost.

"Uh, I got some orders last night. Like too many to count," I mutter. "I went viral. Again. Everyone wants a bright orange bag. I didn't have any orange, so I went out this morning and got some…varying shades of orange. And then…had a fight with the fabric and it won. Clearly."

I laugh uneasily. Everything around me is some sort of shade or orange.

Except me. I am not orange. Nor am I wearing orange.

I hate orange.

"I think if this continues, I'm gonna need my own webpage," I admit, raking a hand through my out of control hair. (I've totally given up battling with it and just let it go with the flow.) "It's not a lot to set up, but I don't know anything about designing a webpage."

"I can't help you," Pamela flatly says.

"Pamela!"

Pamela's being changes the moment Tom calls for her. Gone is the women I've known the past four years. Gone is the pilot, the organized, critical woman who can talk technobabble around me in circles for hours. Gone is the woman who is so anal she irons her jeans. She is replaced by something I never thought I'd see: a girl who is head over heels.

She thinks it's just a silly crush— hence her freak outs and the fact she hated me yesterday. It is not a crush.

OMG, it's not a crush.

WHAT THE HELL?

I knew she thought Hiddleston was cute. I knew she liked his hair when he played Magnus, but she never LOOKED like this when she was faced with his being on screen.

It is so beyond crush level. I see passed the dazed, excited yet kind of scared look in her eyes, the pinking of her cheeks, and the tightness of her posture. The depth of attraction shows in how she leans towards the direction his voice comes from, how her eyes trail over that way and away from me.

Tom enters from somewhere off to the left, coming into view when he sticks his face in front of Pamela and greets me with a huge smile and cheery wave.

"Hi, Door, Girl Who Worships Me For My Talent!" he greets.

I stare at his face, which is huge on my laptop screen.

I don't feel dazed or anything, but all I can do is stare at him with what is likely a puzzled expression.

"Hi," I manage to get out. "I'm Door, also known as Cricket Heidi, Woman Who Makes Orange Purses for a Living."

I throw some orange leather in the air next to me.

"Yes, I know. I'm Tom, the Man Who Treads the Boards for a Living. This is Pamela, Woman Who Soars in the Clouds for a Living," Tom says, backing up to allow Pamela's face to show again.

She looks completely besotted.

Oh, god, this is adorable.

"So, you taking Pamela with you to the MTV Awards?"

"Of course. It'll be an experience. I expect her to take notes and tell me all about popular culture at the end. There will be a test," he says, sounding serious.

And I laugh.

I laugh because it's hilarious.

I laugh because Pamela has managed to fall hard for the ONLY actor she's ever crushed upon.

I laugh because it is bizarre, surreal and all Ben's fault.

Actually, it is Basil's fault. If Basil hadn't taken off for Ben, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to Tom Hiddleston while sitting in a pile of varying shades of orange leather and cotton on the floor in my apartment.

"Basil, I hate you!" I shout at the dog, startling both Pamela and Tom.

Basil's only response to this is to ram her head into the slats of the blinds covering the French doors and to start barking. She jumps up at the fake wooden blinds and attempts to paw her way through them in order to get at whatever she sees.

I throw the laptop aside and rush across the room at her, all the while shouting at her she is a bad dog.

She doesn't get the memo. The barking continues even after I've locked her in timeout.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

"Are you serious?"

"No, I'm Tom."

"Did you just make a Harry Potter joke?"

"Ah, so you've read Harry Potter! This is a good start on your pop culture education!" Tom exclaimed, clapping his overly large hands together.

Pamela stared at his hands transfixed till he started talking again.

"Now, we've not a lot time to go shopping. I fancy shopping and I feel as if you're not into shopping…"

Tom trailed off, eyeing the outfit Pamela had chosen to wear. She was in almost the same thing she'd worn yesterday. It wasn't like she'd brought a ton of clothing with her on her trip—nor did she actually own a lot of civilian clothes.

"I live in a flight suit," she realized, staring down at her herself.

She looked utterly absurd at the moment due to the fact Tom had yanked a sweater over her head as soon as they reached the flat. It was five times too large for her and the sleeves were rolled up a ridiculous amount.

"And that is perfectly fine, darling," Tom assured her. "I thought you were going to ask Door about dresses? Did you?"

That was why he'd given her his laptop and pushed her into what appeared to be his bedroom. Since joining the Air Force, all events that required nice clothing Pamela simply wore her mess dress (which according to Door was the ugliest thing in the world, but Pamela just hated the fact it had an ankle length skirt. She kind of wish it'd have pants like the male version).

Pamela didn't have her mess dress with her, tragically. That option was out.

"I forgot to ask what to wear," Pamela blurted out. "I've only had to buy a dress once. Last fall. For a wedding. Door sent me to some store that only sold things in black and white and some lady showed me something and I got it."

Tom quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, then," he said.

Pamela stared at Tom helplessly. He stared back at her with a similar expression. Then, a light bulb went off above his head and he whipped his phone out and dialed.

"Emma! My favorite sister in the entire world!"

* * *

Pamela wasn't sure if she was actually living her life or dreaming. For all she knew, she'd fallen asleep in that park in Paris on the bench, was mugged and was actually lying in a hospital in France having some sort of weird coma dream.

Actually, that made more sense than being in some way too fancy store with Tom Hiddleston's little sister shopping for a dress to wear to the MTV Movie Awards.

"I don't understand," Pamela said for what felt like the millionth time.

Emma gave her a sympathetic smile and pulled dresses out and held them up to Pamela. She rejected the green one, but kept a cream colored one.

"I know, honey, but you did agree to go with him," Emma reminded her.

Likely also for the millionth time. The pair was having circular conversation. The topic was Pamela's lack of understanding. At any moment Emma was going to murder Pamela. Emma had been a saint all morning with Pamela as they made their way through various stores Pamela never would have set foot within if it hadn't been for Emma Hiddleston.

Emma held up a white dress with what might have been ruffles for a skirt. Her eyes lit up and she smiled.

"I think this is it," Emma said, turning to the woman who'd been trailing behind them and handing the small pile of dresses to the woman. "Have her try the white one on first."

"Yes, ma'am. This way."

Pamela followed the woman, with Emma falling into step next to her. Emma hooked her arm through Pamela's and pulled her closer.

"It is quite easy to understand, if you think about it," Emma said quietly as they made their way to the fitting rooms. She gave Pamela another smile. "My brother does not often become besotted, but he's rather smitten with you. He is going out of his way to make sure he can spend as much time with you as he can."

And Pamela's brain packed up and headed for the North Pole.

* * *

Four hours later, Pamela had a dress. It was the white one with the ruffle skirt thing. Pamela felt very girly in the dress. The whole thing reminded her of a ballerina outfit. It was the only dress Pamela had tired on that got a positive reaction out of Emma, so without looking at the price tag, Pamela had bought it. If Pamela never set foot in another clothing store for as long as she lived, she wouldn't mind.

There was a reason online shopping appealed to Pamela.

Pamela was still waiting to wake up.

Or be put into a real coma.

Neither happened and Emma dragged her into a shoe store.

* * *

"So, I don't have a night shoot tonight!" Benedict cried upon appearing at the door of Tom's flat. "And I'm done for the evening early!"

"Aren't you only done because it is pouring down rain?" Tom teased, allowing Benedict into the flat. "Do you want a potato?"

"No. I remembered you mentioning that you were going to eat only a potato for dinner and came to give Pamela the option to eat a real meal."

"Spoiled sport," Tom muttered. "Pamela!"

Pamela was seated in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to operate the camera Tom had thrust upon her when he'd stuck his potato into the oven to bake.

"Huh?" Pamela blankly asked, finally turning the tiny camera on. She startled as it made a jingling noise.

Benedict and Tom entered the kitchen. Tom went across from where Pamela was seated and leaned against the counter. Benedict stood next to Pamela, peering over her shoulder at the camera.

"You're taking video?"

"I said I'd make a video on my last meal for Below the Line," Tom reminded Ben. "Pamela offered to be the camera operator."

"If I can work this thing," Pamela muttered. She looked up a Tom. "I could just use my phone. I know how to use that."

Tom chuckled, shaking his head fondly.

"Here," Benedict offered, leaning around her to show her what buttons to his and how to line up the shot. After a ten minute lesson, she got how to use the blasted thing. Tom acted like an idiot for the entire ten minutes— doing rather odd things that caused Benedict to burst out laughing and leave Pamela feeling as if she was missing something. She guessed he was just acting like a clown, not an idiot.

And if she'd allowed herself to loosen up a bit, she might have found it hilarious as well. (Tom did have an utterly adorable laugh.)

(No, no, he did not.)

(Oh, she needed to stop lying to herself.)

"So, you two are off to LA tonight?" Benedict asked, leaning against the island in the middle of Tom's small kitchen.

"Yeah. Redeye to the City of Angels," Tom said, leaning against the counter opposite Pamela and Benedict. "Oh, Pamela, have you gotten your things from Ben's?"

Pamela shook her head, cheeks going pink. "I'll do it after we eat."

Every time she thought about the past three days of her life, her stomach loaded up with butterflies and she got dizzy. She felt like an alien. She was sure if she saw herself, she'd want to beat herself up.

She was acting like a total ditz.

"Wonderful," Tom said pleasantly. He peeked into the oven and sniffed. When that failed to yield any results, he poked the potato. "I think it's nearing completion. I guess I ought to run through what I plan to say."

"No cue-cards?" Benedict teased, folding his long fingers together as he balanced his elbows on the island next to Pamela. Benedict had abnormally long fingers as well.

Did all guys in England have huge hands with long, elegant fingers?

Pamela tried to hide her own fingers, as she did not have long, elegant fingers. The guys in her pilot training class had teased she had something called "carny hands." She had no idea what that meant, nor did she want to ask. (It'd happened after the whole tea bagging incident. She'd learned not to inquire about strange things that made them laugh.)

"No. I'm a professional. I need no cue cards," Tom proclaimed, puffing out his chest.

Pamela quelled a giggle.

Pamela did not giggle.

Tom ran through what he was going to say a few times before he concluded it was high time to start filming. Benedict leaned back on the counter behind Pamela, while she aimed and shot Tom talking about his week living on a pound a day. She was highly distracted by his hands as he fidgeted. Luckily, part of her head was on the task at before her, as when he moved to take out his potato out of the oven, she followed him across to the oven steadily. And then back, till she hit stop as he headed off to eat his potato.

"Okay, wanna see?" she asked, eyes glued to the camera in her hands.

Images of his hands stroking his own throat filled her head.

When had she reverted to a silly girl? Her heart was pounding, she was sweating and she was honestly going to have to go to the flight doc and see if a hive of bees hadn't taken up residence in her stomach.

Pamela was seriously an alien creature at the moment. This did not happen to her. Boys did not cause her to react this way.

Tom's hand (oh god) came into view as he hit some buttons on the digital camera to replay the video she'd just shot. Tom hummed his approval and bragged to Benedict he'd nailed it in one take.

"Better you and the street," Tom laughed.

Together, the two actors laughed, each trying to outdo one another one way or another. Pamela simply stared as the Tom on the video stroke his own neck with that huge hand.

God, she hated him.

No, she didn't.

Yes, she did.

Oh, someone find her a freaking hole and just let her die already. She was so done it wasn't even funny. It was the opposite of funny: tragic.

She was positive she'd never felt like this before. She wasn't…well, she wasn't a hermit or anything. She'd dated. She'd had boyfriends. Hell, she thought she was in love once. But, then she commissioned and her life had become airplanes, immature boys, and hopping the International Dateline. She hadn't even noticed it'd been almost four years since she'd actually _liked_ a guy enough to be interested in dating him.

Oh god, she could not DATE Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston!

No. No. NO. NO!

"Pamela?"

Pamela snapped her attention to Benedict, currently convinced that voice could do anything. It'd stopped her panic in its tracks.

Could she take him home with her? The next few days of being one on one with Tom Hilddeston were going to end her.

"Are you ready? Tom must eat his lonely potato," Benedict said, smiling.

Pamela returned that smile— that safe, crooked smile. The smile that did nothing to her insides.

"Yeah. Where were you thinking?"

Benedict shrugged. "Something simple. Likely take away, if you don't mind."

"Nope. Let's go," she said, setting the camera down on the island. She peeked at Tom. "I'll, uh, er, um, I'll see you later."

"Of course, baby doll. Enjoy your food," Tom pleasantly said, beaming at her, while still holding his potato in the oven mitt he'd put on to take it out of the oven.

Pamela hurried to follow Benedict out of the flat, ignoring the fluttering at the endearment Tom had chosen to use this time. She was to the point she could ALMOST handle the whole _darling_ thing (he did call everyone _darling_), but nothing else.

"Are you alright?" Benedict quietly asked as they stepped out of the building a few minutes later. He held the door open for her. The cold air hit her like an ice blast, but a welcomed ice blast.

"Sure," Pamela said. "I just…I…"

Benedict gave her a soft smile and lightly nudged her in the shoulder with his elbow.

"It's perfectly normal," he assured her, putting his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"What is?"

"To like a boy," Benedict said, giving her a soft smile. "You are about as transparent as he is— after you stopped being mad at yourself."

Pamela opened her mouth to deny it, but didn't bother. They walked to the curb, where Benedict threw his hand out and a cab showed up.

"I keep waiting to wake up," Pamela confessed once they were in the cab and on their way back to Benedict's flat. "I'll be in Paris, in that park I slept in and this will all just be…a dream."

Benedict didn't reply.

"It's not a dream," Pamela whispered, eyes glued at London flying passed her.

"No, dear, it's not," Benedict quietly agreed.

"Oh, god. What am I going to do?"

Pamela turned to Benedict, who was regarding her in the growing darkness with a peculiar expression.

"That…I do not know the answer to. Nor do I know what to tell you," Benedict admitted. "I'm sure only you can decide what you want to do."

Pamela turned away.

"It won't work," Pamela insisted. "I mean…it won't. I…he's…I'm going to Del Rio."

She looked at Benedict, sure he'd understand what she meant by that. _Going to Del Rio_ was such a loaded thing for her to say. Del Rio was another world, so far away it was almost unreachable from Tom's London World.

"Del Rio," she restated when Benedict only stared at her.

"Del Rio," he agreed.

In that moment, she knew he understood.

"I shouldn't have let him steamroll me into…I let him buy me a ticket to LA."

Granted, he had likely paid just as much for her one way flight to LA as she'd paid for the damn dress hanging in the coat closet of Tom's flat.

"You wanted to go with him. I'm sure if you didn't, you'd said something."

"I feel like an alien," Pamela admitted, knotting her fingers together in her lap. "Since I've left America, nothing's gone right. Everything been like out… it's been fiction since I left. I mean, in real life, whose vacation blows up in their face like mine did? Who arrives in London and gets retrieved from a Tube station by someone famous, only to meet another famous person and…"

She did not want to say _fall in love_. Or even _fall for_. She didn't want to put words for what had happened to her in the last three days.

"Well, if you ever get bitten by the writing bug, at least you've got a good novel," Benedict quipped.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

"I'm going to need a website designer, someone to manage my money, someone to sew some of the bags for me…a lawyer."

I stare at the list I made. I glance at Basil, who of course, has nothing to add.

"I could incorporate," I go on, even though Basil doesn't care. She cocks her head to the side and stares at me steadily. I stare right back. "You know, this whole thing is mental."

Her head cocks the other way, as if she agrees.

"Well, onward and upward, Dog," I say, tossing the paper away from me and grabbing the nearest half constructed purse.

I work steadily for a long time till I realize I'm stiff and Basil's fury head is in my lap. Sighing, I stand and go to get her leash.

While I aimlessly walk around the apartment complex with the mutt, I ponder life. If I am honest, I cannot deal with the amount of orders I've got at the moment and sleep. While I don't sleep a ton, I have to sleep. I didn't sleep during high school and my mother told me once she almost had me committed.

I want my mommy.

Mostly for her ability to sew. Well, and her talent for snapping me out of my moments of total sottishness. (And that is a real word. Look it up.)

Barhlg.

I started this whole shop thing because I was bored in Del Rio and the school year ended— thus there were no more sub jobs to keep me entertained. (I was a sub for the majority of the time we were in Del Rio, to starve off the boredom and have a bit of money to buy clothes. It's hot. I didn't own summer clothing.)

The only time I've been busy since I opened the shop (before Benedict Cumberbatch) was my first Christmas. I filled at least an order a day plus had five custom orders during the holiday rush. I thought it was brilliant and wonderful and couldn't wait till the next holiday season….

When I had no orders. The entire time I was in Alaska, I had a total of four custom order requests and sold maybe twelve purses in three years.

In Alaska, my whole business withered and died.

Only to come bursting back to life thanks to my new famous friends.

"Come on, French roots," I say to Basil, causing her to stop attempting to walk in the opposite direction of the stairs to our apartment.

I still don't know what _French roots_ means to the dog, but it always gets her to go where I want her to go. Or, it makes her leap around in circles and look thrilled.

If only I had a magical word that made purses. I tried saying French roots to the leather, but it simply remained sitting around doing nothing.

* * *

_Jumping off a roof today. Being up here reminds me you might wish to speak to Pamela. She's being affected by sentiment. Mountains of sentiment. _

I stare at the text blearily.

It takes me a full ten minutes to realize it's Benedict Cumberbatch texting me. It is another two before I remember he's my freaking friend. It's yet another minute before I remember that Pamela and Tom are flying to LA today. Or did. Or are. Or something.

What time is it?

It's six bloody thirty in the morning.

"BENEDICT!" I scream, sitting up in bed.

I throw my iPhone.

Jason whacks me with my pillow.

Basil barks.

The entire apartment complex hates me.

FML.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Luke was a very nice man.

Luke was a normal man surrounded by glitz and glam and famous people. He had a job to do and he did it flawlessly. He herded Tom away from fans, to reporter after reporter and occasionally glared and caused Tom to laugh and get back on point when Tom got distracted— which he did often.

"So, this is a first," Luke said, once he'd managed to get Tom away from the fans and got him moving down the red carpet.

Pamela was freezing.

Why was she forever cold?

"What?" Pamela asked, trailing next to Luke as they slowly moved down the carpet with Tom as he moved from reporter to reporter. Luke looked around, texting away— likely looking after his other clients.

Tom wasn't his only client, right?

She was kind of dazed. Anyone who woke up this morning and stepped out of her room to find Tom Hiddleston's lanky form sitting on a couch would be stupefied.

"I don't think Tom's ever randomly brought a guest," Luke offered, his eyes scanning the scene before him and texting at the same time.

Pamela was still waiting to wake up. She had thought over everything she and Benedict had spoken about during their final dinner together, but she still was holding out she was stuck in a dreamworld.

Looking around her right now, she appeared to be in a dreamworld— designer dresses and shoes, beautiful starlets, handsome actors left and right, and cameras flashing all around her while people shouted for famous people's attention.

Pamela did not belong in this world, yet here she was standing on a red carpet off to the side. And she was bitterly cold.

Why was LA so damn cold?

Pamela wrapped her arms around herslef as Luke tugged on her elbow and dragged her with him as he trailed after Tom.

Tom removed his jacket and gave it to the reporter he was speaking to.

Luke sighed.

Pamela felt like she stuck out, even though if Tom's reaction to her appearance was anything to go by, she looked fine.

Still, she moved to hide behind Luke.

Door would tell her to just let herself go and embrace the romantic feelings stirring within Pamela's usually logical heart. (And stop trying to convince herself she was dreaming some sort of whacky dream.)

Luke looked over his shoulder at her. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"Does anyone?" Luke blankly asked, turning back to his cell phone. He raised his head up and stared down the red carpet. He sighed and nodded, texting again. "When did you meet Tom? Must be recently. I haven't been warned, told, or seen any photos of the two of you."

"Three days ago," Pamela whispered, feeling her cheeks heat up.

She was an idiot.

"Really? Wait…you're the girl with the orange bag? Cricket?"

"I'm not Cricket," Pamela said, snapping to attention. "Cricket is Door."

Luke stared at her blankly.

"Cricket is a door?" Luke asked, ignoring his vibrating cell phone in his hand in favor of staring at Pamela in confusion.

Pamela was about to explain, when someone came up, grabbed Luke by the shoulder and began talking much too quickly for Pamela to make any sense of what the person was saying. Luke, though, seemed to understand as he grabbed Pamela's hand, towed her towards Tom. Pamela tensed up, but Luke just whispered something in Tom's ear as he took his jacket from the reporter. Tom nodded. Luke turned and walked towards the person who'd spoken to him earlier and handed Pamela to him. The guy continued to talk fast, but Pamela followed him. He entered a building and then threw open a door, telling her to this was the theater. He sat her down in a chair that actually bore her name, then left her there.

Alone.

Pamela blinked a few times, looking around the room she'd been led into. She'd never actually watched MTV at any point in her life. As far as she knew, it had to do with music videos not movies.

Pamela shivered. The room was cold, maybe colder than it'd been outside.

* * *

Pamela fell asleep.

Yes, she fell asleep while seated in a theater waiting for an awards show to begin. She had been vaguely aware of the fact the noise level had risen, but she had not bothered to open her eyes till she felt someone shake her gently.

Sleepily blinking, she found a strange person seated next to her.

"Where'd you fly in from?" the person asked, smiling kindly.

"London," Pamela said. "I'm a pilot."

Oh god, her brain was on DUMB.

"You are?" the woman asked, looking confused. "You're not a reporter?"

Pamela blinked. "No. I'm a guest. Of a nominee."

He was nominated, why else would he be here?

"Oh, who?"

"Tom Hiddleston."

"Oh?"

Crap. She likely shouldn't have said that.

"Yeah. He thought it'd be hilarious if I came, as I have no idea what is what when it comes to popular culture. I fly planes for a living."

"For who?"

"The Air Force," Pamela replied.

"Oh," the woman's whole face changed suddenly. "Thank you for your service."

The lights thankfully lowered and the conversation ended.

* * *

Tom was up for one of the awards.

He won best villain and best fight scene.

_The Avengers_ won best movie.

Pamela added award shows to the list of things actors did that was boring as hell.

* * *

"I heard you took a nap."

Pamela startled, almost screamed, but managed not to.

She hadn't seen Tom since before Luke had handed her off to some random minder. She had actually assumed she'd not see him at all for the rest of the evening. Hence why she was surprised to see him now standing next to her seat in the theater.

She'd secretly almost hoped to escape him without having to say goodbye.

She had actually hoped she'd be able to just sit in her seat till they kicked her out.

"I wish I could have taken a nap," Tom carried on talking when Pamela simply stared at him. "I'm glad I found you. I want you to meet some people, actors I've worked with. You likely have no idea who they are, but that's fine. I'll give their last names."

Tom winked at her and grabbed her hand, dragging her out of the building and outside.

It was cold outside.

The world must be ending.

Or she simply brought cold with her wherever she went.

Pamela was so busy worrying about the fact it was cold in LA, she failed to notice when Tom wound their fingers together. He did it so seamlessly, she did not notice till she was faced with a tall, muscular blond man in a leather coat.

"Pamela, I'd like you to meet Chris Evans. Captain America," Tom said, indicating to the man standing in front of her. "He was also some other super hero in another super hero movie."

The man looked down and gave Pamela a smile. "Johnny Storm. Fantastic Four. Pamela, nice to meet you."

He stuck out his hand. Pamela used her free hand to shake with the larger than life guy's hand.

"Nice to meet you as well," Pamela said, smiling politely.

There was something about the guy that eased the odd knot that had lived in her gut since she'd left London. It was similar to how Benedict's voice had calmed her down.

She had no idea why this guy had a similar effect on her, as he didn't sound amazing or anything.

He was just some guy. Who was tall.

"Are you two going to the after party?" Chris Evans inquired.

"Yes. I just need to find Luke," Tom said, looking around.

"I think I saw him with Emma."

Tom hummed his agreement, looking around the backlot where they were all standing around. Now that she was paying attention, she realized the show hadn't been in a theater, but on a soundstage on a studio lot.

Man, she needed some sleep. Proper sleep.

Or she just needed to wake up from this whacky Hollywood dream.

"I'm going to track down Luke and see about the car," Tom said. "Are you going to be here awhile?"

Chris Evans nodded and Tom left Pamela with yet another actor. She could make a list of famous people now— only two of which she remotely knew anything about.

"You look a little shell shocked," he teased gently, putting his hands into his pockets.

Cameras flashed around them, reporters were still walking around with microphones, talking to the winners, talking to other random people. A cold breeze caused Pamela to break out into goosebumps. Pamela shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Shell shocked," Pamela mused, looking back up at the tall man.

(Was every actor tall?)

"I guess I am shell shocked," Pamela admitted.

As she looked around at the action around her, she recognized it was its own sort of war zone. One she was not familiar with, one she was not comfortable within and one that would never be solved with gunfire, bombs or politics. She couldn't drop a tank, a piece of machinery or a few dozen Army soldiers on it and go home.

"Well, I guess if you don't know this kind of stuff, it'd be overwhelming," Chris Evans allowed, looking a bit confused for a moment.

Or ill at ease.

"I'm a pilot," Pamela blurted out to avoid an uncomfortable silence.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I fly big planes."

Chris Evans thought for a moment before nodding.

"And I let insane Army guys jump out the back. Or I dropped tanks out of it."

Chris Evans looks a bit surprised and a little impressed.

And Pamela finally didn't feel like she was a sore thumb standing in a sea of beautiful people. She continued to discuss planes (using her phone to show him what a C-17 looked like) with Chris Evans (who she kept calling by his full name in her head for some reason) until Tom returned with Luke.

Tom took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers, and Pamela decided she'd allow herself to be Cinderella for a few more hours before she glued her head back on straight and went back to the real world.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	7. That Time Door Forgot Tom

_A/N: Thanks y'all for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting. This was planned as just a few one-shots that then took on a life of its own! So glad you've all enjoyed it. _

**_That Time Door Forgot Tom and Basil Barked A Lot_**

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

He had not wanted her to leave. He wished for the evening to never end, even though he desperately wanted to go to sleep. However, Chronos was not his friend and plotted against him to end the evening within a blink of an eye.

Before Tom knew it, Luke whisked Pamela off and Tom was left on his own holding two empty champaign flutes— one that was marked faintly with red lipstick.

Tom hated Luke for a moment for taking Pamela away.

Then he realized it was not Luke's fault, but really his own.

And where had Pamela gotten red lipstick from? She didn't seem like the sort to own makeup.

"Where'd your girl go?"

Tom looked up from the empty glasses he'd been staring into and found Samuel L. Jackson standing next to him, looking politely interested at the blank space that Pamela had occupied the past few hours. He looked to Tom and eyed the empty glasses.

"Did she crawl in there and die?"

"She had to catch a plane to San Antonio," Tom explained, snagging a waiter with a tray to rid himself of the empty glasses.

Now his hands were empty. He flexed his left hand, trying not to think what that hand had been holding moments ago.

What was wrong with him?

"Love sucks," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Where'd you meet her? She looked a bit out of her element. Evans mentioned she's in the Air Force."

"I met her in London," Tom replied, sticking his hand into his trouser pocket. "She was on holiday before starting a new assignment."

"Cool. What does she do?"

"She's a pilot," Tom automatically answered. "She flies C-17s."

Sam looked gobsmacked. Tom politely carried on a conversation with Sam, his mind a million miles away with a woman in a white dress with red painted lips and almost too perfect blonde highlighted hair.

She had been seriously beautiful tonight.

He desperately wanted to see her again.

Right now in fact.

Or at least as soon as possible.

A plan began to form in the back of his mind.

"Oh, no. I know that look," Sam said, chuckling. He rocked back and forth on his heels.

Tom grinned a very familiar grin. Sam quirked an eyebrow before bursting out into loud laugher.

"Cam, do I have anything pressing to do this weekend?" Tom asked, holding his phone out in front of him the next morning while standing in front of the window in his hotel room.

It was smoggy in Los Angeles.

"Huh?" Cameron said, sounding confused. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Did you hear me?"

"I did hear you. You've got several meeting with your agent— those the times are in the calendar in your phone. A few roles on the table for the first two meetings, ironing out the deets for filming that movie with the chick from _True Blood_ for later in the week. You're going to the Clippers game next Monday, then the _Iron Man 3_ premiere with Chris and Robert later that week— times are in your phone. Luke will also have them," Cameron reported, flipping pages in the book that sat on his desk with Tom's schedule. Cameron was old fashion in that he kept an actual, physical book with Tom's professional life contained within. "Then there's nothing till the Oliver Awards on the twenty-eighth. Why?"

"Pencil in San Antonio this weekend and the twenty-fifth till twenty-seventh. "

"You need to be there?" Cameron asked, sounding confused. "Whatever for?"

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how to explain the romanic within was screaming at him for allowing Luke to drag Pamela off, put her on a plane and let her escape without a proper goodbye.

Two lines from the chorus to "Back to Black" by Amy Winehouse rolled through Tom's head on repeat since last night.

Tom ought to let it go. (Who needed more than words to say good-bye?)

Logically, he knew he should simply move on. (Tom wanted more than words.)

There was something _there._ He knew it, his heart knew it, his head knew it— it seemed all of Tom was on board.

Why had he just stood there when Luke popped up and said, "Time to go!" and not said more than, "Good-bye?"

Pamela hadn't even managed to say anything. She smiled, nodded, handed Tom her champaign flute and turned her attention to Luke. Luke had taken her by the shoulder and they left Tom standing there holding two glasses.

So, Tom had said goodbye with words. Pamela had used none.

Still, it had been all wrong. Very wrong.

Tom wanted more and he was sure with the shy smiles, blushes, sparkling eyes, and how natural Pamela had taken his hand as the evening wore on and winding their fingers together, she felt the same as he did.

All signs pointed to the same conclusions.

"Tom" Cameron prompted, sending Tom back to the reality. "Uh, want me to hunt down her address or something?"

Tom didn't respond right away.

"This is about the girl right? The one you needed an extra ticket to LA for?"

"No. Er, I'll figure that out. I'll talk to you when I get back to London. I'm sure the PA Luke arranged will be fine for the time I'm here. Sorry to bother you."

"Uh, sure. Traitor," Cameron laughed. "We know you hate it when you leave me behind."

Tom almost always left Cameron behind when he left London. It seemed pretentious to travel with an entourage. Tom was humble, so he left his PA in London and hardly ever contacted the guy except when he was in need of major help organizing himself— which happened more often than not since _Thor_.

He'd only called now to double check his calendar for the coming weekend— even though Cameron almost always kept the calendar on his phone up to date. Somehow. Tom had never bothered to figure out how Cameron did it.

"Tom, I suggest you go to sleep. You've been running on empty for the past week with that UNICEF challenge you took part in and now you're in LA. Jet lag is bound to make you a bit…off," Cameron kindly said.

Tom knew he wasn't off. He was thinking quite rationally.

"Tom."

"Cameron."

"Take a really long time to think about this."

"Goodbye, Cameron."

"Bye."

Tom hung up the phone and sat down on the bed, eyeing the object that now rested within his hand.

It was a powerful object. It could call people. It had the internet. It could find people.

Tom didn't have Pamela's phone number. Nor did he have her last name. Thus, his phone was slightly useless unless he wished to tweet at her. (She hadn't updated her Twitter feed in over a year and she'd tweeted five times total since she got the account three years ago.)

Tom set the phone on bedside table and threw his face into his now empty hands.

The words San Antonio were scorched into the blackness behind his eyes. The city name stood out in red and throbbed for him to pay attention. Images of Pamela in that blasted white dress, with her ruby lips, and those freakishly straight highlights shining danced in his mind.

"That's it," Tom said, pulling his head up and grabbing his laptop. He booted it up (after plugging it in, as it had died a painful battery death at some point) and opened up his internet browser. He began looking at flights when he was distracted by Skype.

Why was he logged into Skype?

Tom used it, of course, but he didn't leave logged in. He hit the window and gazed in confusion at the names that appeared.

He knew none of them.

Well, other than Door— if her last name was Abercrombie.

Many contained the name Fitch.

Tom had never learned Pamela's last name, but… if he had to hazard a guess Pamela failed to log herself out after he'd let her use the laptop to contact Door. And her last name might be Fitch. Or she simply knew an abnormal amount of people with that last name.

Frowning a little, he picked up his mobile and texted Ben. He waited a few minutes before setting the phone back down next to him when he didn't receive and instant answer.

He moved the curser up to the corner to close out Skype and go back to what he'd been planning to do: buy a ticket to San Antonio. Before he had a chance to log out, the program made that annoying noise it made when someone messaged it.

**Door Abercrombie: Why are you on here, but not answering your phone!?**

Tom stared at the message and frowned. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

**Door Abercrombie: You did make it here, didn't you? I didn't see you on the show last night, or in any of the photos that surfaced this morning. Did you really go or was this an elaborate, evil plot? **

**Door Abercormbie: I'm not sure what it'd be an evil plot for…you're the one who freaked out, not me. **

**Door Abercormbie: Uh, Pamela?**

Tom settled his fingers over the keys and began to type.

**Pamela Fitch: This isn't Pamela. She failed to log out when she used my laptop. I apologize.**

There was a long pause before the next message.

**Door Abercormbie: OMG.**

**Door Abercrombie: Is this Tom Hiddleston?!**

**Pamela Fitch: Yes.**

**Door Abercombie: *passes out***

Tom frowned.

**Door Abercrombie: Do you know if she even got on her flight last night? She was supposed to call my husband to go get her, but she never called.**

Tom turned to the internet browser and looked up Pamela's flight.

**Pamela Fitch: It landed on time. Connection was made on time. She ought to have been there by nine am.**

**Door Abercrombie: That's what I thought…It's almost noon.**

Tom glanced at the clock. It was ten in the morning in LA.

**Door Abercormbie: Well, I guess I'll call her cell a few more times. It's still going straight to voicemail. Are you sure she got on the plane?**

**Pamela Fitch: Well, I did not personally take her to the airport. My publicist saw to her last night, I believe. I could call him. I'm sure he saw to it she arrived at the airport.**

There was a long pause before the next message popped in.

**Door Abercrombie: No, no need. She just called. She didn't bother getting on the flight from Dallas. She's still in Dallas, waiting for her dad.**

Tom frowned.

**Pamela Fitch: Why?**

**Door Abercrombie: He's driving her car down from where she left it in CO Springs. I guess he was somewhere in Texas when she called before she boarded the plane, so they decided he'd just swing by and get her in Dallas, even though it makes NO sense. Doesn't add much extra time, just miles on her car. **

**Door Abercrombie: Her phone died.**

**Door Abercrombie: She's on her way to SA now. With her dad. In her car. So she has his phone. **

**Door Abercormbie: Sooooo we found her!**

**Pamela Fitch: That's good. I'm glad.**

Tom suddenly realized his heart was pounding and he'd been sitting with a lot of tension in his body, as he felt his muscles loosen suddenly.

He clicked back to the browser and booked himself a ticket to San Antonio for the next weekend, then informed Door of his plans.

He was pretty sure by the silence he was met with, he'd given the poor dear a heart attack.

Three hours later, Tom received a text. It jolted him out of the light sleep he'd fallen into whilst watching television. Blindly grabbing for his mobile, he read:

_Of course their last names are Abercrombie & Fitch._

And against his will, a random line from a song he couldn't remember the title of, who it was by or why he knew it, leapt into his mind. Groaning, he flung the mobile back down.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I have a day off. Well, kind of. Caitlin Moran is supposed to stop by to do an interview. I suggested my parent's cottage in the country, as I needed to get out of the city, out of London and away from everything. So, weekend in the country with my parents.

As Door said to me when I originally told her about my feelings of stress, "Sometimes you need your mother. Trust me."

I need my mum.

My parents ground me, remind me of what's important, and that I'm still Ben.

Like going to the store without people realizing who I am, they make me feel normal.

Though, what is normal when you've got two actors for parents and you're doing an interview on your day off?

"Sweetie, when is that woman supposed to be here? I thought she'd be here before lunch," Mum comments, bustling around me. She picks up my forgotten tea cup, slaps my arm and then heads into the kitchen.

"I think she's next door," I say, moving across the lounge to look out the front window. There is a woman trying to break into Kate Moss' cottage (mansion) across the way. "I think she's eventually try our humble abode."

"Oh, Ben."

My phone begins to blare from my pocket.

"Hush that thing," Mum chides, poking her head out of the kitchen.

I yank out the phone and see it's Door.

Why is Door calling me?

"OHMYGOD!" she shouts the moment I answer. I hold the phone away from my ear and Mum stares at me before snorting and wandering back into the kitchen. "I FORGOT TO PICK UP TOM HIDDLESTON!"

I stare blankly out the window as the woman shouts at the house across the way. She thinks she's being clever by channeling John when he shouted through the letterbox at Sherlock in "Blind Banker."

I think I might enjoy this interview.

If she ever heads over here.

"What?" I ask, not knowing what Door is trying to tell me. The words slowly filter into my brain and I realize what she just said. "Why are you picking up Tom?"

"He's here to see Pamela! He got in at one in the morning or something Broadway whacky and I FORGOT TO PICK HIM UP AT THE AIRPORT."

I look at my watch, attempting to figure out what time it is in Texas.

I fail and give up.

Wait, what does _Broadway whacky_ mean?

"I FORGOT TOM HIDDLESTON!"

"And you are calling Benedict Cumberbatch because…?"

"I don't know. Jason is asleep. He grunted at me when I realized I'd forgotten to pick Hiddleston up. I can't tell Pamela. It's supposed to be a secret. Shit. Damn it. I suck at this. OHMYGOD I HATE THIS TOWN."

Door lets out a few Door created curses before she calms down.

"Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did I agree to this?"

"That, my dear, I do not know. However, I believe Ms Moran has figured out that the Cumberbatches do not live in Kate Moss' house and is heading this way. I must go. Interview to do and all."

"Ben?"

There is a tone in her voice that makes my heart twist up. She sounds so tired and alone.

"Yes, Door?"

"Tell me I'm not wrong to want this to work," she says quietly.

I hear the engine turn off and silence rages over the line. I believe she might be talking about Tom and Pamela, yet she could be speaking about so many other things. Yet, I know what she needs and I do know why she called me of all people.

She needs a friend. She needs reassurance. I also happen to be wide awake.

And it's partly my fault she's so stressed out— between leaving Pamela alone with Tom and telling Mark about the penguins, it is all my fault she's about to lose her mind in a world of thread, orange leather and dog fur.

"You're not wrong to want it to work."

Door sighs. "Thanks, Ben. Now, go be your amusing self and show the world you don't walk around with a stick up your butt."

She hangs up before I can analyze what she means by that. Other than it seems part of the world has this misconception I'm posh simply because I went to Harrow.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I just had the longest week known to man.

And I had a HUGE ass secret to keep. (Not to mention about a hundred purses to complete. Then I had another hundred-katrillion orders by the end of the week and I think I might need my mommy.)

Oh, and I SUCK at secrets. Luckily, Jason was uber busy being a pilot, while Pamela was busy trying to sort out her life upon reaching Randolph. From experience, those first few days of being at a new base, even if you're just TDY, are a pain in the butt. (Don't ask me what TDY stands for, I've got no idea.)

I told my mom all about Tom coming to SA to surprise Pamela. My mother went all gushy on me and waffled about how romantic it was, and how romance was dying and at least one man out there was still romantic.

Then she asked me why I hadn't found a romantic. (Poor Jason. My mother doesn't find the odd things he does romantic, but I do. I mean, yeah, you might not want a huge ass photo of a building for a first anniversary present, but I did. And yeah, you might not realize why the hell I am crying when he handed me a potted plant after I got my appendix out, but I do. And that's what counts.)

(The building was the inn we got married in and the plant was because I had told him between Hiddleston ramblings I hated guys who gave girls flowers. They just wither and die— hence the potted plant. That my mother killed. But, that's another story for another day.)

So, yeah, I failed at keeping Tom's arrival a secret. I told my mom. I told Jason. I just told Benedict on my way to the airport just now and I told the guy who sells me leather at the store I've taken to buying my leather from. (He had no idea why it was a big deal, even after I said Loki. Clearly, that guy's whole life is leather.) I'm pretty sure I'm missing some people I might have told too. (I did a lot of shopping this last week, hence lots of check out people to tell.)

I am late to pick up Tom Hiddleston. And by late, I mean I'm over two hours late and it's almost four in the morning. Now, his flight was late, BUT not two hours late…only, like an hour late.

Which means, I'm still SUPER late for an very important date.

Late with a capital "L" that rhymes with "M" and stands for moron.

Or something like that. I'm in trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymes with "P" and stands for…oh, I'm too tired for _Music Man_ references.

I am standing in the airport trying to find for Tom Hiddleston. I shouldn't be trying to figure out how to be witty in my own head.

I am STANDING in the SAN ANTONIO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT looking for TOM HIDDLESTON.

Did I die?

I think I might have.

Jason didn't even budge when I shouted I had to get Tom Hiddleston and I was late. He simply hummed and rolled over. (Sometimes I hate Jason for his mad sleeping skills. Sleeping is his all time favorite thing. Sometimes (don't tell him I said this) I think he likes sleeping better than me. Oh, and if he could, he'd be a professional napper.)

Where the frack is Tom Hilddleston?

Oh, no. What if he got tired of waiting and left? He'd texted my phone a few times since he arrived (which was how I found out I was late…the phone finally woke me up). Wouldn't he have texted if he decided I sucked at life and left?

He said in his last text: OK.

So, he must still be here.

Somewhere.

It's not even that big of an airport. It's no O'Hare. Or Denver. Or Seattle. Or Atlanta. Or Heathrow. Or any of the other airports I've ever been in with the exception of Anchorage, Charlotte, and St. Louis. Those were dinky.

_Where in the world is Thomas William Hiddleston?_

Okay. Stop singing in your head, Door.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom tapped his foot, feeling a little annoyance creep into his being. He should have known Door would be late— she was Ben's friend. (Though, what did that say about Tom?)

(It was too early or late to be introspective.)

Tom took another gulp from the coffee he'd been nursing since the Starbucks cart had opened up. The flight had taken off an hour late, so he'd gotten in an hour later, but Door was nowhere to be found. He had texted her, called her, but she had not answered till about a half hour ago when she sent him a combination of letters (another made up word maybe) and said she was on her way.

Tom was about to give up and call a cab when he spotted a head of out of control ginger mess hurrying through the baggage claim wearing a bright green hooded sweatshirt that had Abercrombie & Fitch printed across the chest. The woman paused, looked around, curls flying everywhere.

How did she see through that mass of hair?

The woman turned and Tom took a moment to study her closer.

Unlike her friend, Door did not scream American loudly. Even dressed in the LOUD labeled top, she moved differently from Pamela. She held herself differently. Her hair was also un-styled— no highlights, not straightened, no fuss whatsoever. Tom had a feeling this wasn't just due to rolling out of bed and coming to get him either.

Tom slowly rose from the bench he'd been seated on since he'd arrived at the baggage claim, tossed the empty coffee cup away and sauntered over to the girl.

"Schemee," she muttered loud enough for him to hear as he approached her from behind.

Tom tried his best not to laugh.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

"There you are."

I jump about ten feet into the air at the sound of his voice.

"I got here as soon as I could operate," I snap before I can stop myself. "It wasn't my idea for you to arrive at too early to be awake in the morning."

Oh god.

I just snapped at Tom Hiddleston.

In public.

Need a hole to crawl into to die within.

STAT.

Instead of being pissed at me (as he has EVERY right to be), Tom Hiddleston smiles at me.

SMILES AT ME.

(He must be…alien or seriously the nicest person on the planet.)

"Oh, dear. Aren't we cranky in the mornings," Tom muses. He cracks his neck, still smiling and asks ever so politely, "Shall we be on our way?"

"Oh. Yeah. Leaving. Yes."

I turn and walk back the way I came.

"What am I supposed to do with you? I doubt she's awake. Can you check into a hotel at this hour?" I ask as we walk through the almost empty airport. A few people stare as we make our way along— likely thinking _Is that Tom Hiddleston? What the frack is he doing here? And why is he with that woman who has never heard of a hairbrush before? _

"Do with me, darling?"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"I would love to be able to sleep for a bit. Unfortunately, my hotel reservation is for tonight," he says. "I know it was the most inconvenient time for me to arrive, but I figured you'd be used to it. And you did insist on picking me up."

He gives me a disarming smile, hitching the overnight bag up on his shoulder.

(How the hell is he looking so cool and collected after an overnight flight and sitting around the airport? Did he groom himself in the bathroom? He doesn't seem like the type, but he looks— well, I look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket and he just breezed out of a magazine spread (oh, how I hate thee, let me count thee ways). Am I forever doomed to meet famous people when I'm not at my best? At least I lack the grass stains and the barking menace to society…)

"Huh?"

"If memory serves me correctly…" Tom trails off a moment, appearing thoughtful. "You spent a lot of time whilst living in Anchorage, Alaska going to the airport in the middle of the night."

My jaw drops clear to the ground and I trip over my stupid feet.

(Seriously, they are stupid. I have "small" feet according to my mother, but sometimes I think they are much bigger than they appear. Like I have a foot of unseen foot.)

(I wear a size eight and half, which from what I can tell is average, as there are never any shoes left in that size on the sale rack. Also, not small. Size six is small. Unless you're Martha Judoc and have size ten feet, I guess.)

"You read my blog?" I breathe out, staring at him with huge eyes.

I must look like an idiot.

But, then, I am an idiot.

Just like my blasted dog.

Gimme a tall glass of water and an extra dose of moron, please!

"Of course, darling," he drawls, shaking his head at me. He turns his gaze away from me as we near the doors to the parking garage. "I wasn't aware I'd have to wait almost two hours for you to come get me. I did catch a cat nap, though. Rather comfortable waiting lounge."

"I'm sorry. I think I kept thinking the phone was part of a dream," I apologize in a rush. "It was bizarre. I was trying to go get you and Jason kept telling me I couldn't. And he kept refusing to see _Star Trek_ with me and _Iron Man 3_. And his excuse was something to do with you. You're not even in those movies and yet it made total sense to me!"

Tom appears confused. As he ought to be. My dreams never make sense. I once had a dream where the pastor of my church assimilated the entire congregation. And it wasn't assimilate like they do on _Star Trek: TNG_, but this weird thing where everyone walked around saying, "La, la, la, la" after the guy did something that looked strangely like the Macerana in front of them.

"Jason thought I was mental," I go on.

"Aren't you mental?"

I press my lips together and glare at him.

Tom gives me a knowing look.

"Fine. I am totally tetched," I agree, pushing the door open and letting the morning air hit me.

Actually, it's kind of cold (for Texas). Hence, the sweatshirt I'm sporting this lovely morning. (I sometimes put my fleece North Face jacket on to take the dog out. It's forty some mornings when I wake up to take Basil the Lovely Idiot outside. I feel shame at this, as if it was forty in Anchorage, I'd be never wear the North Face jacket. I'd wear a blazer, not a fleece. Hell, last spring I broke out the shorts (with tights) when it hit thirty-six.)

"Oh, it's not all that horrid," Tom comments as we walk out into the parking garage. "I was expecting pressing humidity, death by smog, and feeling like I was walking through pea soup."

"Nope. We're having a cold spell," I grump. "No smog, no pea soup, and very little humidity for those of us who do not have to battle with fascist hair."

"Your hair is fascist?"

"Well, yeah. It explains why we do not get along," I explained. "It's a long story that involves this strange board game my friends and I found at the coffee shop on campus where I was pope so I did what I wanted."

"Like Loki," Tom muses.

"Yeah, before Loki did what he wanted, though," I point out. "Loki wasn't even conceptualized in that formate when I went to college."

"When was that?"

"Oh, Mr Hiddleston, don't you know its impolite to ask a lady her age?" I say, pretending to be scandalized.

"Well, Lady Door, I apologize for insulting your integrity," Tom purrs, looking throughly sorry for his indigression.

Seriously, what is with this guy? How he is real?

"I graduated from college in 2006. Do some math and you might figure out my age," I say with a smile. "It took Ben a few weeks to take the time to figure it out, then about fifteen minutes to actually do the math correctly. I knew there was a reason I loved him."

(Math and I are not friends.)

The ugly, white, oversized object I must drive comes into sight as the pair of us chuckle of Ben's lack of math skills.

"Here we are. The monstrosity known as a 4Runner, not to be confused with the Road Runner."

I glower at the SUV.

"It is rather…leviathan," Tom allows. "And it doesn't go fast?"

I grin, remembering Pamela— during one of her rants— mentioned Tom liked words. The more obscure the better.

(I'd noticed his use of some not usually used words while we were talking. We could have a word battle!)

"No. It's got this whacky transmission that doesn't know how to shift right. Likely due to the fact it's leviathan, brobdingnagain, pythonic, and kind of pachydermatous."

I glance up to find Tom smiling down at me— that well known grin directed at me.

ME!

DOOR JUDOC-ABERCROMBIE!

He puts one of those super long arms around my shoulders, dragging me into his side ungracefully (I am the ungraceful one, he moves like a gazelle).

Do not fangirl. Do not fangirl.

Do not start to write odes to Tom Hiddleston.

OMG. I've liked this guy for over ten years, I've followed and watched EVERYTHING he's in that I can get my mitts on.

I am allowed to have a small fangirl freak out in my head.

(Freaks out.)

"Door, I think we're going to be great friends," he smirks before letting me go. He takes a few steps towards the SUV, pausing before I unlock it. "Alaska has boring number plates."

(Freak out ends. Back to reality. Tom Hiddleston is a gifted actor, but at the moment, he's just Tom. Like Ben is just Ben, not Benedict Cumberbatch, the man who looks like an alien but it does not matter because he's got TALENT oozing out of his wide spaced eyes. And he kind sounds like dark chocolate— if that makes sense. Just go with it.)

I laugh, the noise echoing around the parking garage. I feel proud. I was able to get a grip a lot faster here than I had been when I first met Ben— then again, I KNEW I was meeting Tom Hiddleston today and had a whole week to get used to the fact.

Oh, I'm so proud of myself. (Pats self on back.)

"That was my thought too when they handed us those things," I say, sounding totally myself. "But, they aren't as ugly at the Illinois plates. Have you seen the gradient on those things? Even I could have done a better job and all I have is a semester's worth of training at graphic design from high school. And, the people of Illinois VOTED for those ugly things."

"I cannot say I know what they look like," Tom admits, opening the passenger side back door to put his bag on the floor.

"Seen the Batman movies?" I ask. "The new ones with Bale?"

Tom waits until we were both in the stupid 4Runner before telling me he had seen all three Bale Batman movies.

"Those are Illinois plates on the cars for Gotham," I tell him. "They made them that way because they filmed the first two movies in Chicago and it was just easier to make all the plates look the same— that way they didn't have to worry about cars that were on the streets when they filmed. All the plates look the same and you cannot read the stupid things from far away— just see the colors. Seriously, what was Illinois thinking?"

"You seem rather passionate about Illinois number plates."

"I'm from Illinois. I belonged to them for the twenty-six years of my life till I gave them up for Alaska. I belong to Alaska now, heart and soul," I say, starting up the car.

It roars to life— vociferous and vapid.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela's eyes flew open. The blank, white ceiling of the hotel bedroom greeted her. The blackout curtains allowed a little grey light of the morning to seep into the room, but for the most part the room was draped in darkness. Rolling to her side, she reached for her cell phone. Upon hitting a random button (not that there are many to choose from on an iPhone), the phone politely informed her it was six thirty in the morning.

Pamela groaned, falling backward.

Letting the phone fall to the ground, she ran her hands over her face a few times before making a choice.

She'd go running. It was early, it'd be cool and no one would be around. Having been in town for a few days, Pamela had taken the time to map out the area she was staying for best early morning running routes. Jason has told her that once she started flying, early morning runs wouldn't work— but Pamela preferred exercise in the morning rather than in the evening.

"Blarg," Pamela announced, rolling out of the bed.

She threw the blankets back and got out of bed, padding over to the walk-in closet. Flipping the light on, she entered the walk-in closet that was HUGE. She had hardly enough to fill half the closet let alone the whole thing. She fingered the fancy bag her new (overpriced) dress now lived its life (and would likely remain till the end of time). Catching herself, she quickly pushed it deeper into the closet and used her winter coat to hide it. She turned heel and headed back into the bedroom and to the dresser, where her running things lived.

Why had she even gone into the damn closet?

Using the light from the closet, Pamela crossed to the entertainment center that also served as a dresser for the bedroom. Yanking the drawer open that contained her running clothing, she hunted around for what she wanted.

She liked the hotel the Abercrombies had suggested. It felt more like her apartment back in Seattle than a hotel room. It had a full kitchen. With pots, pans and dishes! The whole joint was better than the "long term" accommodations she'd been trapped in so far in her life in the Air Force.

Granted, she wasn't getting really paid enough per diem for the room, but a little out of pocket for what she currently had was fine with her. She had internet, cable, and house cleaning.

What more could she ask for?

_Tom_, her mind supplied.

"Oh, shut up, you idiot," Pamela muttered, cramming her running top over her head. "It's not like he's going to drop everything to come see you, you silly girl. Fairytales don't happen. That's why they are called fairytales. Oh, god. I'm talking to myself."

She realized besides talking to herself out loud, she'd not removed her tank top she'd slept in before putting on her running top. She banged her head against the closed doors of the entertainment center above the dresser.

After her run, she dragged her tired limbs up the concrete stairs slowly. She stuck her key card in and waited a moment for the green light. Once she heard the door unlock and the light flicked green, Pamela pushed the door open and entered the cool air conditioned main living area. While it was "cold" at the moment, Pamela felt quite differently.

The locals knew nothing of cold.

Cold was standing around an outdoor set in London for three hours in March.

Pamela's heart stuttered as she remembered London.

London reminded her of Tom.

Tom Thoughts instigated all sorts of strange things.

Things that usually made her want to read a manual (Dash-1) on the T-6 till her brain was numb.

She picked it up and sat down to read the oversized binder.

She would not think of London, Tom, or anything connected with either of those two things.

It was done.

Over.

Finite.

(Insert more words that meant _end_ that would make Door proud.)

The only noise in the hotel room was the flicking of the pages as Pamela read the huge manual she'd been handed a few days prior. She might not be thrilled with this assignment, it might not be the C-17 and she might be going backwards (re:flying the plane she'd learned to fly in after flying her career plane), but damn if she wasn't going to be the best instructor pilot that came out of this stupid program.

Pamela read the Dash-1 till her back ached and she remembered she was still in her sweaty running clothing and the time was inching towards eleven. Door had said she and Jason would drop by around noon to get her to take her to that ranch that dude in Jason's original pilot training class parents owned. The Neverland Ranch? The Enchanted Springs Ranch? Enchanted-land Ranch? Never Springs Ranch? Spring of the Never Enchanted Ranch?

Pamela had no idea. It was somewhere around here and she was going there today. She hoped the guy was one of the more mature people— he likely was if Jason was still speaking to him. Jason had no time for idiots (except his dog).

Pamela slammed the binder shut and headed for the bathroom.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

The dog hated Tom. It was the only explanation for the almost constantly barking since Tom had walked into the Abercrombie residence. Tom was sure there wasn't a deaf ear within a ten mile radiance.

He was amazed no one had broken down the door of the flat to demand silence on this wonderful Saturday morning.

BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

"BASIL!" roared Door, hauling the dog into the bedroom yet again. Tom heard a cage door shut and lock.

The dog continued barking.

"No more treats you!" Door declared. "We are NOT friends!"

Tom had not moved since he'd arrived. The dog had come out to see what was going on and the barking had started— only stopping when the dog would be locked in her cage and would forget Tom was around. The moment something reminded the dog of Tom's presence, the barking began.

"She did this when we had all Jason's family down for graduation from pilot training," Door had explained after it'd happened for what felt like the millionth time. "She has no short term or long term memory sometimes. Or she took a HUGE dose of moron before going to bed last night."

"Or she hates him," Jason had offered up.

Tom had suggested someone drive him to the hotel he had had Cameron book him into nearby, but Door was too exhausted to drive, Jason had actually been asleep till about two hours ago (he slept through the barking) and now neither Abercrombie saw the point of hauling Tom to the hotel when they'd shortly be heading over to get Pamela from the hotel she was living at.

Tom could use a nap. One that wasn't punctuated by barking.

"Do you wanna shower?" Door asked, slamming the bedroom door. The barking became muted. "We might have some spare towels. Did you happen to get any sleep earlier?"

"Of course," Tom lied, smiling.

The dog had escaped (somehow) and barked in his face whilst Door and Jason both slept during the wee hours of the morning. The dog only sort of stopped when Tom clamped a hand around her muzzle.

She still barked. Or at least tried to.

Tom could not honestly understand why Ben had LIKED the birdbrained dog.

"So, shower?" Door asked, walking through another door. Tom listened as she opened and shut cabinets and came up out with a bath towel and wash cloth. She looked quite proud of herself.

"Bless you," Tom said, picking up his overnight bag.

He went into the bathroom and the barking stopped.

"You are a really preposterous dog, you know that?" Tom heard Door inform the Barking Menace. "Seriously, you are cracked. What do you think he's going to do to you? Give you a BATH?"

Tom drowned whatever else Door said to the dog by turning the shower on.

OoOoOoOoOoO

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

"You do realize Tom Hiddleston is naked in your bathroom right now."

"It's our bathroom and, uh, I hadn't really thought about that."

"Well, he might not shower naked. Maybe he wears his boxers? Or briefs. Do you know what he wears?"

"NO! Why would I know that?"

"You're his fan."

"Of his WORK! Of his WORK! Do you care what kind of underwear Payton Manning wears?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"I hate Payton Manning."

"BLJRLSUISFSLKJDFSLDISOEJF."

"Door, darling, that's not a word."

"Don't you start with the _darlings_, Jason James Abercrombie!"

"Oh, but you're my darling, darling."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I think I'm going to leave you for Benedict Cumberbatch. Lemme just ring him now."

"You can't ring him."

"I can too!"

"Does he answer to a bell?"

"Oh, you jerk, stop trying to be funny. You are not funny."

"Tom Hiddleston is naked in the bathroom."

I pick up a pillow and whack my annoying husband upside the head.

Basil starts barking.

Oh, how I hate Basil Bea Dog, let me count the ways.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	8. Londoner Subjugates Ranch

**_Londoner Subjugates Ranch in Hill Country_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

"No! Don't do that! Why did you do that?"

"Because it's the way to get to—"

"NO! We're getting Pamela not going to HEB!"

Silence.

"I'll be able to get off."

"Next exit is Kitty Hawk. That is passed the hotel," Door said in a flat voice.

"When did you become an expert on the highways of the area? You're afraid to drive," Jason accused.

"I DRIVE!"

Tom did not bother to pry his eyelids open as the two argued. He was basking in being in a bark free environment.

"Oh, look! There goes the hotel! Wheeee! Oh, look, next exit is Kitty Hawk! I win!"

Jason hummed.

Door let out an exasperated noise.

The car slowed down, getting off the motorway.

"Use the whoop around! Don't make a left hand turn! Whoop around!" Door shouted.

Tom felt the car slow further, then take a sharp turn. Still, he did not bother to open his eyes, but allowed his mind to drift off, a small smile on his lips as he let images of Pamela's surprised face fill his head.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Tom decided to visit the land of Nod.

I have a slumbering Tom Hiddleston in the backseat of my car and I cannot wake him up.

How the hell do you fall asleep on a ten minute car ride?

Well, unless you're a baby. They fall asleep on ten minute car rides— or so I am told. I've yet to have access to a baby long enough to test the theory.

No one in their right mind would give me a baby. A few foolish people have given me their child and left me alone with said child for an extended period of time without any parental supervision.

I wondered about their sanity while said child and I proceed to play with flutter and Gorilla glue, had My Little Pony and troll wars and basically made a huge mess while singing the latest and most annoying pop song I could think of.

I think most people assume I'd get along great with kids because people view me as "fun." I doubt anyone thought it was fun to clean up flutter. (Have you ever Gorilla glued flutter to your hands? It take WEEKS to come off.)

"Just go get her," Jason says, sounding vexed. "Let him sleep. You're the one who left him stranded at the airport for almost two hours."

"And you're the one who slept through Barkamagedon," I snap.

We're all running on little sleep. And by we, I mean Tom and myself. Jason slept for almost twelve hours straight.

We hate Jason.

Leaving Tom sleeping like a baby, I slam the door and head up the stairs to the room Pamela lives within. I knock on the door, waiting for her to answer.

"I wore the shirt you wanted," she says by way of greeting when she flings the door open.

"This is the part, in a perfect world, where you'd be stunned into silence by the appearance of one Thomas William Hiddleston," I tell her, enjoying the puzzled expression on her face. "However, because I'm a twit, I left him at the airport in the wee hours of the morning for an extended period, made him come back to my apartment where Basil the Barkapotamous barked in his face because she doesn't like him for some unknown reason and now he's passed out cold in the backseat of the 4Runner."

Pamela's eyes go wide and she appears to have stopped breathing.

"Thus, not here to shock the socks off of you!" I finish, doing a ta-da motion with my hands.

Pamela stares blankly at me. It's like I'm speaking Greek or something to her.

"Please tell me you're pulling my leg," she whispers.

"Nope. Tom Hiddleston in my backseat asleep," I report, smiling.

"Why?"

"Because he's sleep deprived?"

"No, what's he doing in San Antonio?"

"Uh, he's madly in love with you and wanted to see you again?" I offer, unsure why she is still peering at me as if I'm speaking in Icelandic.

"No."

"Pamela Jane Fitch, he is. Accept it and move on. It's totally adorable," I say, putting my hands on my hips and giving her a firm look. "I know you're trying to be logical and whatever about this, but drop it. He is utterly into you and it's almost sicking. Okay, no it's not. It's utterly sweet. He likes you! He really likes you!"

I dance back and forth on my toes while she stares at me like I've got ten heads. I stop dancing.

I shouldn't dance. I'm amazed I didn't trip over my own feet during that little dance.

"He doesn't know me! He saw…he knew…I wasn't me over there!"

I sag a little and give her a look I hope informs her she's a moron.

"You were you for the most part," I tell her. "I mean, he didn't see you are an utter neat freak or that you wake at the crack of dawn to run your little heart to death, but you were you that first day likely. A little spacey, but you're always a little spacey when you're off your sleep schedule."

"I am not."

I roll my eyes at her.

"What is he doing here?" she asks, holding the door frame tightly in one hand and the door open with the other.

"I told you. He wanted to see you. In your natural environment!" I cry, flinging my arms out to the side. "See, now he can see the real Pamela! Not the…jet lagged, just slept on a park bench in Paris Pamela!"

"I can't—DEL RIO!"

"You can't Del Rio?" I ask, feeling bewildered.

I glance down the stairs at the still running 4Runner. If Jason was rude and impatient, he'd be honking, but Jason isn't like that. He's impatient, but he's too polite to honk in public. (Seriously, he never honks his horn, even when people try to kill him on the roads.)

"DEL RIO!" Pamela shouts.

"Is in the middle of nowhere," I say, getting more befuddled. "And kinda boring. It lacks a proper mall, a fabric store and last time I was there it lacked an actual drug store, but I heard they built a Walgreens!"

"It's another world! Thomas doesn't exist in that world! He's…he's….he's Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston!"

I stare at her for a moment blankly. "Tom can exist in Del Rio. I heard they even filmed a movie near Del Rio once. Or maybe twice. Jessica Alba lived there for awhile! It was before she was famous—"

"No!" Pamela shouts, looking as if she's going to punch me in the face. "Benedict understood, why can't you?"

"I live on Mars part-time, so I never understand you Earthlings," I tell her. "Jason's got the car running because it's stupid Texas hot out here now and you know how you don't like to kill the planet?"

"Yeah?"

"The 4Runner kills the planet, so you might want to follow me to the car. Maybe you can wake up Tom?"

"I don't want to wake up Thomas!" she hisses at me, but thankfully exits the room and shuts the door.

Note: Pamela has taken to calling him by his full name. This means she likes him, as if she didn't care, she's be calling him Tom, since that was likely what he told her to call him and what he's professionally known as. She calls everyone by their full name (except me as I force her to call me Door). It's this weird thing with her— she doesn't shorten people's names she likes. Maybe in hopes they'll never call her anything except Pamela?

I look down at Pamela (she's short, I'm not. I always thought I was short until I "joined the Air Force" and felt like a giant around all the other wives and suddenly had to face up to the fact I had abnormally tall friends my entire life). Pamela is sportting the navy blue shirt I requested, the one I got her for her birthday last year. It's got FITCH printed on it in big, white letters with a few rhinestones. Totally not something Pamela would wear, but since meeting her it amuses me to see her in shirts with her last name on them from the store that bears our last names. (Well, my married last name. No one prints JUDOC on t-shirts and sells them in stores for outrageous prices.)

I am, of course, wearing a t-shirt that has ABERCROMBIE printed across it in huge letters and sparkles. It's also got a football, which is totally my thing. I love football. (Hence why everyone thinks I'd love Texas due to the entire state's love affair with the sport. They all play professional football inside on fake grass. You do not play REAL football inside on FAKE grass! You gotta play on GRASS and OUTSIDE in all sorts of weather. Like the Bears. And the Packers. And yes, I like the Packers and am also a Bears fan. My husband claims I can't do that, but I DO WHAT I WANT.)

"He ought to sleep," Pamela goes on, staring down the stairs at the 4Runner like a scared mouse. "He's really here?"

"He's really here. I'd know. I forgot to pick him up at the airport this morning," I remind her. "I screamed at Ben this morning. Crap. I ought to apologize for that."

"Why did you scream at Benedict?"

"I called him because I figured he'd be awake," I admit. "Come on. Let's kill the planet by going to Boerne."

Pamela sighs, but follows me down the stairs. She approaches the car and opens up the back door behind the driver and peers into the car as I get in on the other side. Tom is in the seat behind me, still zonked out. The look on Pamela's face as she stares at him is priceless. I almost want to take a picture of it and frame it. It would be called PAMELA IN LOVE. (Well, it'd be called something more creative than that, but I'm working on little sleep.)

"You getting in?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows.

"I hate you," she mutters without effort and climbs into the car. She slams the door as hard as she can, peaking at Tom under her lashes, but he doesn't rouse.

He simply sleeps on.

Tom Hiddleston is clearly a professional sleeper like Jason.

* * *

The ride to Boerne (it's pronounced like Bernie, not Boe-urn like how I wanted to say it when I first saw it spelled on the weather map) is almost silent— except for my singing. Tom is napping likes it's about to go out of style, Jason isn't not a chatty person, and Pamela is too busy staring at Tom out of the corner of her eye to carry on a conversation. Not that I care. I'm perfectly content to sing along uninterrupted.

We reach the ranch that Dan's dad and step-mom own and come to a stop in front of the house. Jason and I visited during pilot training a few times. It's kind of a nifty place. It's got some animals and an old west town where they'll arrest you for a fee.

Jason and I weren't arrested. Dan's dad announced the first time we ever met him that all Dan's fellow pilot classmates could visit the ranch for free, but if we wanted to be arrested, we'd have to pay.

"I've got a business to run!" the man boomed.

Seriously, the guy could give Thor a run for his money by how loud he is. The man is short, though, so of course he couldn't give Thor a total run for his money. Thor is also not a real person.

Bah.

Jason refused to pay to get arrested and held my purse hostage so I couldn't.

Tragic, I know.

"Well, we gonna wake him up now?" Jason asks, turning the 4Runner off.

"I dunno," I say, turning around in my seat. "He's kinda cute when he's sleeping."

"You think everyone is cute asleep," Pamela mutters.

"I am awake."

And Tom's blue eyes appear and he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further and making the front stick up in an utterly adorable way.

Conclusion: Tom is pulchritudinous and unable to look bad.

I hate him like I hate my dog. (When she's not a barking menace to society and just a furry menace to society.)

"How long was I asleep?"

Tom's voice is slightly rough from sleep and is doing something to Pamela.

She looks like she wants to die and melt at the same time.

Interesting.

"Since we left the apartment," I report. "Look, Pamela!"

And before anyone can react, I leap out of the car. I look towards the house where Dan's family lives and find Dan standing on the steps looking mildly confused. (Dan is often puzzled looking so it's not that strange to find him looking befuddled while simply standing on the steps of his family's home.)

"Hi!" I say loudly, waving in a large circle at him. "Long time no see!"

I haven't seen Dan since we left Del Rio almost four years ago. He stayed in Del Rio to be an FAIP. (First Assignment Instructor Pilot. I know what that one stands for.) He's done with that at the moment, but he's a future fighter pilot and has to relearn how to fly the trainer fighter pilot plane for some reason, so he's in San Antonio before he gets to go somewhere nicer.

Yeah.

Dan gets to go to freaking Oregon to train for an ungodly amount of time before going to either Japan or England for his first assignment in his career plane.

I hate him.

I do.

I will be totally haterific if he gets to go to England. I might not ever speak to him again. (I lie. I'll likely speak to him more just to use him as an excuse to go to England— though, I guess I could use Ben as an excuse. Ben lives there. Right now. And Ben lives where I want to go: London. There are no air bases in London to my knowledge.)

(I should go see Ben! I wonder if I can use Alaska Airlines miles for that? We've got a ton from three years of living in Alaska. Did you know, Anchorage is really far away from, well, anything other than other chunks of Alaska, the Yukon and bits of Russia that are really cold?)

"I see you got a new car since leaving Texas."

Dan knows the 4Runner is a touchy subject with me and I miss my beloved Volvo. I spent almost two hours telling Dan how much I adored my Volvo after we got it.

Dan remembers EVERYTHING I tell him. It is actually freaky, as I assumed I was the only person who remembered unimportant things. (I do not fool myself that what I tell Dan is important. He has to fly planes. What I tell him should not live on his iceberg.)

"Don't even start with me, Daniel," I scold. "It's a horrid vehicle."

"Hey," Jason greets.

"Hey." Dan finally comes down the stairs, looking around. "I thought you were bringing Pamela?"

"We did," I say, smiling.

Dan gives me a majorly confused look before looking back at Jason who rounds the 4Runner to join us on the side with the house. Jason shrugs deeply, his eyes looking around and taking everything in. It's like he's looking for something— change maybe? I doubt Jason would be able to tell if anything changed. Details like that escape Jason.

"Should I be worried?" Dan asks Jason, eyeing me with distrust.

I grin wider.

"Yeah. She knows famous people now. She's a nuisance to society," Jason mocks.

Dan appears more bewildered than usual, staring at the 4Runner. "Huh?"

The back door opens on my side and a long, lanky leg appears. Tom's head pops up and Dan's confusion grows in leaps and bounds.

"Good morning," Tom greets smoothly. "Or is it afternoon?"

He shut the door with a resounding thump.

"It's afternoon," Dan says. "Did y'all eat lunch?"

"Yes," all of us say as the other back door on the 4Runner opens and shuts.

"Good, good. Uh…"

Dan stares at Tom, looking like he's trying to place him but is unable to achieve this feat.

"Hi. I'm Tom," Tom greets, giving me a look.

Oops. I forgot to introduce my guest.

"I take it you're Dan. It's wonderful to meet you."

Tom grabs Dan's hand in both of his (which looks tiny dwarfed in Tom's hands) and shakes it as if it is just the most wonderful thing in the world for Tom to be meeting the future fighter pilot.

"Yeah. Uh, I'm Dan," Dan says, looking as if he was hit over the head one too many times.

"Hi, Daniel," Pamela says loudly, popping up at Jason's elbow. "It's good to see you again. How did Del Rio treat you?"

Tom drops Dan's hand and begins looking around, his gaze always going back to Pamela before shooting off somewhere else. He looks like a little kid set loose in an amusement park for some reason. He is radiating with glee.

Dan starts talking to Pamela about Del Rio, the T-6 (the plane he's been flying the past four years) and they both start talking in technobabble. Jason stares at Tom for a moment before one of the large dogs Dan's family owns appears at Jason's knee and demands attention. (Jason is a dog magnet.)

"Y'all are here!"

I turn towards the front porch to find Dan's step-mom whose name has left my head since the last time I saw her coming down the stairs.

She is utterly gorgeous, especially for an older woman. She's got slivery blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She's from Sweden, only she didn't live there long enough to gain any accent.

Due to my love of accents, I find this tragic.

"Jason, did you get taller?" she asks, eyeing him as he pets the giant dog who comes up to Jason's waist (the dog is HUGE).

"No, I didn't," Jason says, brushing the fur off of his hands before greeting Dan's step-mom— who of course hugs him, which is hilarious because she's tiny and he's not. Also, Jason doesn't hug, so when people hug him he looks like he's being tortured.

"I think you did," she teases, greeting Pamela and then myself. "Oh, Door honey, I hear your business is booming!"

"Yeah," I say, accepting the hug from the woman. "And I brought with me the man who is part of the reason for the explosion of orange in my life."

I falter for a moment, as I can't remember her name. I know her last name. I can just use that.

"Mrs Silversmith, I'd like you to meet Tom Hiddleston," I say, motioning to Tom with a wave of my arm.

"OH!" Dan shouts suddenly. "You're Loki!"

"Yes, that is one of my better known roles," Tom says. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Silversmith."

Tom goes on to ooze charm and melts Mrs Silversmith (Oh, call me Ingrid) into a puddle of mush.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

The ranch was nice— a little dusty, as it hadn't rained recently. Dan enjoyed telling tales of when there had been an actual lake on the property as he drove Tom and Pamela around on some sort of backroad golf cart. Pamela was seated next to Dan up front, Tom hanging off the back.

Shortly after arriving and getting introductions out of the way, Door was dragged off by Ingrid to put a puzzle together.

"I've missed my puzzle partner!" Ingrid had exclaimed, somehow bodily dragging Door inside. (Door was a good five inches taller than the other woman.)

Tom had no idea where Jason had gone, but no one seemed bothered by his vanishing act except Pamela who frowned before Dan distracted her by towing her towards the odd looking golf cart exclaiming it was high time Pamela showed up for a tour.

So far, Tom wasn't sure what Ben and Door disliked about Texas.

Yes, it was slightly suffering from drought, but a recent rainfall had left it rather green and it appeared that spring was flourishing— for somewhere that was suffering from a three year long drought.

Granted, it was rather warmer than Tom cared for in April, but it wasn't all that horrid. Tom had suffered through worse in a three piece suit, so wearing jeans and a t-shirt seemed almost freeing when he remembered much more dastardly conditions.

"So, uh, how'd you, uh, meet Door?" Dan asked as he stopped the cart in an open field with a few cows, which Tom had been told were called longhorns.

"Through Pamela," Tom answered. "Should I be worried the herd of longhorns are approaching?"

"Huh? Oh, no. As long as you don't bother them, they won't bother you."

Tom nodded.

Dan began to list facts off on longhorns a mile a minute— just like he had for every kind of animal they'd visited that afternoon. Tom was filing away all sorts of random facts about buffalo, deer and even zebras (Tom wasn't sure what a ranch in Texas had zebras for, but they had zebras).

"Thomas, turn around," Pamela said.

Tom turned his attention to Pamela.

She was taking his random appearance rather well. She'd been embarrassed when he first woke up to find her seated next to him, but before they got out of the car she had recovered. He had felt slightly embarrassed to have dozed off when he'd been so excited to actually see her, but Pamela seemed to understand his need for some sleep.

"You're really here?" she had asked quietly while Door greeted someone outside and Jason slid out of the car silently.

"Yes, to see you," Tom told her honestly.

She looked as if that couldn't possibly be the case. "Why?"

"We only said goodbye with words," Tom replied, then smiled.

"How else does one say goodbye?" Pamela had wondered out loud.

"Same way I had wanted to say hello today," Tom cryptically replied, grinning. "But, darling, we ought to get out of the car and greet our hosts. I'm sure there will be time later today to discuss hellos and goodbyes."

And Tom had gotten out of the car and changed gears into charming guest.

Tom saw Pamela's white iPhone and smiled before she could take one of her stealth photos of him without a smile. She grinned at him, aiming and lining the shot up instead. She took her time, watching something on the screen. Tom let the smile fade a little.

"Okay, now put that ridiculous smile on your face."

Tom wasn't sure what she meant (he had no ridiculous smile), but he let a goofy one rip across his features (earning him a laugh from Pamela).

"That's going to Door to do with as she please," Pamela said.

Tom heard the phone send off a text.

"Oh?" Tom asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Of course. She can't always be making a fool out of just Benedict."

"Benedict?" Dan asked, reminding the two of his presence.

"Cumberbatch?" Pamela asked, sounding slightly confused as she looked over at Dan, who looked just as bewildered.

Then again, the man had looked in some state of confusion since they'd arrived. He didn't act like he was forever confused, but he looked it. Dan was rather _au fait_ in a wide array of various subjects.

"_Sherlock_?" Tom offered. "I'm sure Door's told you about him."

"Holmes? I don't think she's mentioned Sherlock Holmes," Dan said, knitting his eyebrows together. "Wait, was that a show on that PBS thing she is obsessed with?"

"It was."

"Oh. She knows the actor?"

"Yeah, she met him at some park near the airport thanks to her idiot dog," Pamela said, pocketing her iPhone.

"He's playing the villain in the upcoming _Star Trek _movie," Tom offered.

Dan shrugged, staring the golf cart back up. "Let's go see if Kirsten is up to. I bet she knows who this Benedict Cumdurhatch is."

Pamela looked utterly embarrassed and Tom let out a loud laugh as they drove off away from the heard of longhorn who'd been closing in on their location.

* * *

Kirsten turned out to be Dan's step-sister who looked like what the world thought all Swedish women looked like: blue eyed, blonde and super model tall.

She'd clearly gotten her height from her father.

Kirsten knew exactly who Tom was before Dan opened his mouth. She screamed and hugged Tom for almost fifteen minutes before calming down enough to form words. Tom smiled the whole way through, as he was used to this kind of thing from some of his fans.

"OMG. I cannot believe Tom Hiddleston is here. At the ranch," Kirsten gushed once the gift of words had returned.

"Uh, yeah," Dan said, frowning at his step-sister. "So, uh, I was going to show them the town. Anything on?"

"No," she said, reaching behind a counter and pulling out a book. "Johnny and Colt are on for sheriff and banker. No one else is scheduled to come in."

She slammed the book shut and pouted.

"No one's come through today except you two," she mournfully said, eyes linger on Tom for a moment too long. Tom shifted closer to Pamela, putting his hand the small of her back. He opened his mouth to say something, when Kirsten suddenly seemed to _see_ Pamela for the first time. "Wait, if Pamela's here, that means Jason is here, right?"

Pamela scowled deeply.

"Yeah, Jay's at the house. Tucker wasn't interested in letting him escape. Door's with your mom."

Kirsten rolled her eyes, tossing her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. "Stupid dog."

"Tucker is not stupid. I'm going to go find Colt. Maybe…wait, you're an actor!"

Dan's whole being lit up.

"Yes," Tom said slowly, wondering why that mattered all of a sudden.

"You're famous!" Kirsten shouted.

The two began shouting things, which made sense to them, but Tom couldn't make head or tails of what they were saying. They both took off suddenly in two different directions. Pamela groaned, turning and burying her head in Tom's chest. Tom stared at the top of her head, surprised but pleased with this development. Tom moved his arm from the small of her back to around her waist and encouraged her to move a little closer.

"I have a feeling a lot more people are about to show up," Pamela laughed uneasily, shaking her head.

Dan suddenly reappeared, causing Pamela to look up. Tom kept his arm around her waist. She didn't move away, surprisingly.

"You don't mind, do you?" Dan suddenly asked, not seeming to notice their close proximity or care. "I mean, uh…I mean, I can stop Kirsten from putting out you're here…but, it might be fun, yeah? This place is always best when filled with people."

"You must take business opportunities when they present themselves. Ask Door," Tom easily said.

If Tom could help business (which looked quite dead) that was worth a little…well, it would be worth putting up with a lot of people. They were nice people, they deserved to have their business pick up.

"Oh, cool! Hey, would you mind giving us a hand with the tours? Instead of just, well, standing around. I mean, in the summer we have actors and stuff to play roles and we've only got Colt and Johnny. I'm sure Colt would let you be sheriff."

"Oh, well, I guess I could do that. Sounds fun," Tom allowed and Dan quickly vanished.

Tom felt Pamela tense up and looked down to find she looked like she wanted to punch Dan.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"You didn't come here to work!"

"I would not call this work," Tom admitted.

"They're blatantly using your fame for their own profit!"

Tom stared at her. He wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"Isn't that what Door did?"

"NO! She didn't know what she was doing when she put that image up, but her sole purpose wasn't getting more sales, it was to get a laugh. I mean, it's clear she didn't expect her business to boom. She's totally overwhelmed. Did she even clean up the pile of orange leather sitting in the dinning area?"

No, she hadn't.

"Hey, put these on," Kirsten said, holding out a pile of clothing topped with a Stetson. "Colt would rather hang out with the horses. This will be epic. Seriously epic. I can see it now! Oh, Pammy, you can help out if you want too."

Kirsten grabbed Tom and towed him out the door.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I love puzzles.

Okay, I fib. I do not love them, but I seem to find myself often doing them for some reason with people's step-mothers. Maybe it's a step-mom thing? I don't know. I don't have a step-mother, so I wouldn't really know now would I? Jason's step-mom loves puzzles, Dan's step-mom loves puzzles and each time I've ever set foot within either one of these women's homes, I wind up doing puzzles with them.

It's not so bad, actually.

Other than I'm so not a puzzle person, but I'm so not a social person and sitting here at the puzzle helps out on the whole awkward silence thing.

"Would you look at that…we've got a line."

At the sound of Mr Silversmith's voice (call me Howdy), I look up from the Puzzle of Mind Death I've been sitting at for who knows how long. Ingrid lifts her head up from the pile of puzzle pieces she's sorting through.

"What is it, honey?"

"We've been over-run by girls," Howdy says, sounding rather awed. "I guess I ought to go see if Colt and Kirsten need help with them all."

Howdy opens the front door and exits.

I quickly stand and go to the big window next to the dinning room table where I've been trying to kill brain cells with an impossible puzzle.

"Oh god," I breathe.

The place is teaming with females— clearly all part of Hiddleston's Army.

How did they find him?

"I'm so sorry."

"Why? What did you do?" Ingrid asks, coming to stand next to me. "Oh, my."

The place is a zoo.

"I posted a picture on Twitter of Tom and a longhorn with some stupid comment about Loki rules cows. I didn't think it gave away the location other than Texas and I didn't say WHERE in Texas he was. It's a big state!"

I bang my head against the window.

I am cursed.

I hate the internet and it clearly hates me. At least we've got a good working relationship of hate.

"Oh, honey pie, I doubt you did this. This has Kirsten written all over it. She does this kind of thing all the time. She gets the whole…advertising aspect of the business. I bet she saw an opportunity upon finding out who that handsome man is and went wild."

Oh, poor Tom.

What had Kirsten done?

I hurry out of the house and towards the town, fighting my way through the various people who have invaded the usually quiet ranch.

Once again, I am trying to find Tom Hiddleston. And once again, I seem to be unable to track the taller than average man down.

I find Pamela before I find Tom (strange, as she's shorter than the average woman). She's standing in front of the general store, arms folded across her chest and wearing a rather blank look on her face.

"What is going on?"

She jumps and looks at me with big eyes.

"Oh, it's you."

"Where's Tom?"

"He's with Kirsten."

Pamela scowls.

"Uh, okay," I say, wondering why she is scowling.

I mean, yeah, Kirsten is tall, blonde and gorgeous, but Tom is totally into Pamela. He FLEW to SAN ANTONIO to see HER. Hello! Not gonna get swept off his feet by a Texan-Swedish beauty in cowboy boots.

"He's with Kirsten giving tours. He seems to be in his element," Pamela says, waving a hand at the crowd in front of her. People are milling around, clearly waiting for the next tour to begin. (I don't know what a tour here actually consists of, as I've been given a tour by Dan. Dan isn't allowed to give tours to the public as he talks too much.)

A tall, lanky looking cowboy catches my eye as he lops into the town square, leaping up onto a box in the center.

"Well, looky here! Town's been invaded by pretty, little pieces of calico!"

I think that is Tom, only, he's got a Texas twang going on.

"Are y'all here to see our interestin' town of Never Springs?"

The crowd agrees they are indeed here to see the town of Never Springs— a town put together by Howdy going around Texas and saving fronts of buildings and a few entire buildings. That is Howdy's life: saving Texas history.

"Where'd he get that outfit?" I ask, looking over at Pamela, who is trying to keep up her mad act, but it's failing at seeing Tom in his element.

"Kirsten," she says, the scowl appearing for a minute before it vanishes as Tom begins to tell some sort of historical story about something.

He is seriously in his element here— if his body language is anything to go by. The crowd in front of him aren't behaving like stereotypical fangirls as they are completely enraptured by Tom the Small Town Texas Sheriff.

How the hell he learned all the information about the joint in no time at all is utterly amazing.

Then again, he is Tom Hiddleston.

"I reckon it's time we get going. There's lots of bandits 'round these parts packing," Tom announces, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. He eyes the crowd before him, who all do a combination of sigh, gasp and giggle. "We do have a mighty strong jail, though. Made by the finest blacksmith this side of the Mississippi."

"Reach for the sky!"

I jerk around and notice Kirsten pointing a pistol at the crowd, dressed up like a robber. She's surrounded by several other people wearing bandana's over their faces and holding fake money bags.

(Kirsten fancies herself an actress. Makes sense she'd want to playact with Tom Hiddleston.)

She swings down from her hiding spot and attempts to take the crowd of girls hostage along with her gang, but fails as the entire group is quickly arrested by Tom and handed off to one of his fellow cops.

I watch Tom lead the group further into town before telling Pamela I'm going to go speak with Kirsten. I amble over to the jail where Kirsten is locked up with a few fan girls, who are still swooning about being arrested by Tom Hiddleston.

"Door!" Kirsten crows as I enter. "Just the person I wanna see!"

"Oh?" I ask, leaning against the wall and out of the way of the people who are coming in and out.

"Of course," she says, bouncing over to me. She pulls the bandana off her face, reveling very white teeth that are bared for some reason at me. "I have an idea."

Oh, no.

Kirsten is kind of mental. Her ideas involving me usually end up with me looking like an idiot. Last time, she dressed me up in a way too heavy dress for July, made me stand in the middle of the town square and scream bloody murder.

* * *

It's almost closing time. The sun is starting to set and the chaos is finally dying down. I've spent the past few hours wearing an old fashion dress and being kidnapped by Colt and saved by Tom (he is the hero of this story).

I had to scream. Tom is impressed by my ability to scream bloody murder, so I will see this as a win and not making a fool out of myself.

I'm still not too thrilled, though, thus why I'm sitting in the church hiding. I have been since Tom last saved me in front of a few older fans, who all swooned. They distracted him so I could escape. Thus, I love them.

This was not my idea of a day off. I had this crazy vision of sitting inside, dressed for the weather and doing puzzles that caused brain discombobulation. I did not imagine wearing a calico dress and a bonnet and being kidnapped by Colt. I've been tied to a tree, tied to the bank vault (which is real, don't get locked in there or you might not come out, as they don't know the combo), tied to the barn, and simply just tied up and shoved in a cupboard once.

Even being saved by Tom Hiddleston couldn't make me smile after that last one. The cupboard smelled of something I couldn't place.

"There you are," comes a British accent.

Oh, how I missed that accent for the past few hours.

"Here I am," I quip as Tom ambles over, sitting down next to me in the pew. "Sorry about this."

"No, it's fine," Tom lies.

He clearly cannot be fine with having his day off taken over by his fans and Kirsten's insane ideas at fun.

"It was kind of fun. And I got to connect with a lot of fans," he says, smiling serenely. He stretches out his arms on the back of the pew and sighs. "Though, I did not get to see Pamela as often as I'd like. Where'd she go?"

"Last I saw her she was glowering in the town square," I report.

"She's moved on," Tom sighs, his head falling back. For a moment I witness how exhausted the man is as he lets his guard down.

I feel so damn guilty. I think I'd apologize, but I don't think he'd accept it. He'd tell me it is not my fault for dragging him out to Boerne.

Technically, it's Jason's fault as it was his idea to take Dan up on his invitation AFTER I told him Tom Hiddleston was coming to visit Pamela for the weekend.

"Please tell me they are feeing us dinner at some point," I moan, my stomach making a loud noise.

Tom chuckles, pulling his head up so he can look at me. "I believe Ingrid told me they were making steaks for us all. Where is your husband?"

"Hiding with the dogs?"

"He loves dogs, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but he'll deny it if you ask him," I say. "He didn't even want to get a dog. I had to talk him into it."

Tom chuckles. "I hate your dog by the way."

"I hate her too! Maybe we ought to form a Basil hating club? We can call it something like Anti-Barkapotumus Club. Or, Club for Those Who Miss Their Hearing. OH! The Anti-Barking Menace League," I suggest, waving my hands around as I think up suggestions. Tom's eyes latch onto my wrist for some reason. "Okay, I don't know. And I don't always hate her, but I don't think she likes me at all. She loves Jason."

"What is that bracelet?" Tom asks, reaching forward and grabbing my wrist. He flips over the upside down bracelet, revealing the charm. "You have a medical condition?"

I snort. "I do, but that's not what that is. Look closer."

Tom peers at the bracelet— which is a simple silver bracelet from the World War Two era. Or at least the charm in the center of it is from then. I never did research to see if the rest of it comes from that era. I know the clasp doesn't, as since I've had it, it broke and I had it replaced.

"I'm at a loss. What is it?"

"Well, these are wings," I explain, allowing Tom to keep hold of my wrist as he studies the bracelet. "The center— the body? It's a propeller. Like for a plane."

"Ah," Tom says.

"It's a Pilot Sweetheart bracelet. They had them in World War Two," I say. "Pilots gave them to their girls when they went off to war or something. Jason found it in an antique shop. He got it for me for our first Valentine's Day."

And I gave him some socks.

He did need socks. He never buys them for himself.

"That is rather sweet," Tom says, looking up.

He's got this crazy look in his eyes that kind of melts my insides. It's not even directed at me, as I know he's not thinking about the fact Jason is adorable and is so happy I'm so damn lucky.

No, Tom Hiddleston is thinking about Pamela Fitch.

And he is utterly illecebrous.

I know Tom's attractive. I've known that on some level since I first saw him on TV, but now…I kind of get the mania around him now. I didn't really before, as most of what people pay attention to is simply his outside when his insides and talent is what I've always enjoyed. (Oh god, that is kind of gross. His insides? Seriously, Door?)

I get it now, though. I have witnessed IT in person. I can understand how people fall for him left and right because he is a danger.

Tom Hiddleston is dangerous.

He drops my wrist, pulls out his cell phone, and begin to type into the screen.

"Shall we head to the house? I hear there is beer and crisps for all!"

He stands up, still looking at his cell phone and vanishes.

Ben isn't dangerous.

Benedict Cumberbatch is somewhat a troublemaker on screen, but Ben himself isn't a danger. Ben is a huge dork and I adore him, but Tom Hiddleston is noisome. He's a demagogue on the screen and in person.

I wonder if that's why Pamela freaked out in London? Not because she was in the presence of Tom Hiddleston, but she realized the guy was kind of a danger to her heart, sanity and perception of other human beings?

It is impossibly easy to understand if he EVER looks like he just did in front of people that they'd all fall madly in love with him.

Oh, what the hell am I talking (thinking) about? For all I know he only looks like that because he's into Pamela?

He's never looked like that before to me and I've seen EVERYTHING he's done.

I think I'm too tired to figure out what the hell is going on with me.

And I need food.

Feed me.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	9. A Contradiction, Something Beautiful

**_A Contradiction, Something Beautiful_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela gave up glowering in Never Springs' town square shortly after Door left to speak to Kirsten. She knew she couldn't hangout around Tom now that he'd chosen to go along with Kirsten's scheme (and was thoroughly enjoying himself), so she went up to the main house to suffer through doing a puzzle. Doing a puzzle with Ingrid— since she'd lost Door as a puzzle companion— seemed like a good idea till Pamela got down to it.

Pamela spent most of her time trying to organize the puzzle pieces so they were neat and orderly— then Ingrid would take a few and mess up Pamela's system.

Pamela Fitch was not meant for puzzles.

"So, it was a surprise Tom showed up, right?" Ingrid asked as she began to get things together for dinner, leaving Pamela to organize the puzzle pieces to her heart's content without interruptions.

"Uh, yeah. I guess. Door knew," Pamela said, making a perfect square image with the pieces.

"Ah, of course Door was in on that," Ingrid commented, vanishing into the kitchen.

Pamela blankly stared at the half assembled square of puzzles pieces while listening to Ingrid bang around the kitchen. She placed a finger one a piece of solid blue and pushed it in a circle.

Surprise!

Tom Hiddleston was here to see you!

Surprise!

Tom Hiddleston was too nice to say, "No, I don't want to play Texas Ranch Tour Guide today."

Surprise!

Oh, who was she kidding. Tom had been in his element and it was breathtaking. He was having fun and for some reason Pamela got the feeling it'd been some time since he'd had so much fun. If he looked like that while working— Pamela would need to remain far away from him at all times when he was working or she might ruin it.

Pamela shivered.

Shaking herself, she pushed a few puzzle pieces into the next row to form the square, not bothering to notice the action around her till she felt someone sit a little closer than normal next to her on the bench she was seated on. She startled, turning to find a smiling Tom Hiddleston.

"Good evening," he greeted.

Besides dropping the Old American West accent he'd invented for himself, Tom had changed back into his own clothes. He smelled faintly of dust, sweat, leather, and something else that wasn't normal.

"Good evening," Pamela replied, her stomach knotting up and exploding with butterflies at the same time.

Tom reached over and pulled a huge bowl of potato chips towards himself— mindful of Pamela's meticulous put together puzzle piece square. "Did they offer you a beer?"

"I don't drink beer," Pamela said, indicating to her glass of water she'd been nursing all afternoon. "Are you done?"

"Yes. The ranch has closed and I signed my final autograph," Tom said serenely. "I'm all yours now."

He smiled at her and Pamela's head went a little blank.

"Hey, you two seen Jason?"

Pamela tore her eyes off Tom to find Door standing at the other end of the table, looking mad. Her hair even looked upset— but that could be due to the fact it'd been bound in a bonnet all afternoon (Pamela had heard but not seen. Ingrid kept a running commentary on what was going on in town).

"I can't seem to find him. I found the dogs, but no Jason."

"No, I haven't see him," Tom replied, popping a few chips into his mouth.

Door frowned while Pamela scowled deeply.

"Have you seen Kirsten?" Pamela asked.

"Not since she put me in that damn dress," Door grumped, stomping across the wood floor. She fell down onto the bench across from Tom and Pamela and began randomly talking about the puzzle and stealing pieces of Pamela's puzzle square. Door tried to jam pieces into various spots without success. Tom picked up pieces and put them in the right place.

Of course, Tom Hiddleston could put the blasted puzzle together.

Pamela bit her lip and studied Door as she continued to sit there oblivious. She glanced at Tom, who also seemed to fail feel something was amiss. Pamela had noticed almost four years ago when the Abercrombies began make frequent trips to Boerne. Pamela had never gone with them during the various trips to "visit" Dan's family's ranch, but a few times they'd gone up there for the weekend when Dan had not gone to visit home (which he often did as he could not stand to be in the dorms with all the other singles guys).

(Not something Pamela could blame him for…)

When Dan's family had shown up for Jason's graduation (because they knew half the class even though Dan was no longer in that class because he'd gone T-38), Pamela knew something was just _wrong_.

Pamela might be an idiot when it came to herself and guys, but she noticed something going on between Jason and Kirsten that overly hot day in July.

Door hadn't and had looked at Pamela as if she were nuts when Pamela mentioned it.

No one else noticed anything either when Pamela had discreetly inquired around. Jason had always vanished for long periods of time. And he wasn't a chatty fellow, so no one knew where exactly he went when he'd go MIA— and no one was bothered. Pamela hadn't been bothered until that graduation weekend.

Pamela didn't want to think ill of Jason. He and Door were a great couple…they worked well for how different they were. And Pamela hadn't witnessed Jason and Kirsten together without a hoard of people around, but she'd heard Kirsten's comments about Jason and had noticed her staring at him with a look that made Pamela's insides crawl a little.

By the time the weekend was over, Pamela disliked Kirsten Elfoson quite a bit and she was sure something had happened— partly from the shifty look Jason had about him each time Door bounded into the room jabbering excitingly about leaving Del Rio.

Kirsten didn't spend the day today with Jason where ever he'd vanished off to because she was too busy monopolizing all of Tom's time, so technically, Pamela shouldn't be worried.

"What's wrong, darling?"

Pamela turned to Tom to find him peering at her, looking concerned. He placed a hand on her knee, looking a little shocked to find it bare. He covered and kept his hand where it'd landed, his eyes never leaving Pamela's own.

"Nothing. Just being stupid. Where'd Door go?"

Door had vanished.

"She announced she'd died of hunger and fell on the floor," Tom said, sounding amused. He removed his hand and sat up straight.

"Woe is me!" came Door's voice from the floor. "Here lies Dorothea Judoc-Abercrombie, also known as Cricket Heidi, Designer of Ugly Orange Totes. She was not killed by fugly orange pieces of leather, but lack of food. Woe is me!"

"Oh, you're a little drama queen, Dorothea," Ingrid teased, walking in holding a large platter of steaks and followed by Howdy. "Get up off the floor."

Door leapt to her feet, her face beet red.

"Terribly sorry. I'm rude," she apologized.

"No, just strange," Howdy said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Where are the others?"

"I'm here!" Dan shouted, falling into the house through the front door. "I helped Colt and Johnny close up. Where's Kirsten and Jay?"

"No one knows," Door said, sitting down next to Pamela. "I assume Jason is with the dogs."

"Kirsten's likely counting the money," Howdy said, setting a plate down on the table— right in front of Door. She frowned at it's lack of food.

"I did that. We're rich!" Dan cried, sitting down across from Pamela. He seemed to noticed Pamela for the first time. "Oh, Pamela."

"Hi. I've been hanging out with Ingrid all afternoon. Don't feel bad," Pamela assured as the back door opened and Kirsten stumbled in.

She looked a bit mussed.

"What happened to you?" Howdy asked, catching sight of his step-daughter.

"Fangirls," she said gravely. She smoothed her hands over her hair a few times, smiled brightly and bounced over. "I believe they are all gone now. Thanks, Tom. This has been totally awesome. Can we get you to come back sometime?"

"We'll see. I'm rather busy," Tom replied, eyeing the platter of steaks in Ingrid's hand.

"FEED ME!"

Everyone stared at Door.

"Sorry, did I say that out loud? I'm terribly sorry. I go a bit nuts when starved, kidnapped and rescued while wearing a horrible smelling dress all day."

Ingrid picked up a steak and plopped it on the plate in front of Door as the front door opened and in came several large dogs and Jason— who was covered in fur.

"You're furry!" Door exclaimed. "Basil's gonna hate you tonight because you'll reek of other dogs! Finally! My puppy will love me!"

"You should feed her," Jason said, giving Door a strange look.

"Working on it. Sit, sit, sit," Ingrid said, plates flying with steak and other things left and right.

* * *

"Where are you staying?" Door asked as they neared the side of town Pamela was staying on.

"Oh," Tom said, digging around in a bag at his feet for a moment. He extracted a pile of papers and shuffled through them. "Hampton Inn?"

"Where the hell is that?"

"Just after Evans," Jason intoned. "You pass it on your way to base."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do. I don't. I go the right way."

"I do not go the wrong way."

"Yeah, you do!"

"I DO NOT!"

Pamela sighed, sinking back into the seat, slightly embarrassed to witness this pointless fight. She had noticed the pair snipped at one another more often than they used to— she'd chalked it up to the fact Door was over stressed.

Now, Pamela worried it was something else.

Jason was usually quite calm. And he hardly ever got mad, upset or anything. He was cool, collected and, well, calm.

Pamela needed to buy a thesaurus.

"My way is the BEST way!" Door proclaimed, anger in her voice instead of humor. "AND YOU DID IT AGAIN!"

"Did what?"

"Got into the wrong lane and just went passed where you needed to get off to drop Pamela off!" Door shouted.

Jason didn't respond.

Door didn't say anything either, simply folded her arms across her chest and seethed. Tom looked uncomfortable, shifting a little in his seat and eyes darting between the ice cold anger issuing from Jason and the slow simmer Door had entered.

"Well, you could just drop me off at Pamela's. I'll call a cab," Tom offered. "I'd like to speak to Pamela anyhow."

He turned to Pamela.

"If that is fine with you?"

Tom looked a little sheepish, inviting himself over.

"It's fine."

The two in the front didn't say anything. Jason got off at the next exit, used the turnaround, headed back they way they'd just come, and found his way to the hotel without further incident.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Door said.

To whom she was speaking was unknown, but both Tom and Pamela agreed and got out of the car. The car roared off into the night, leaving Pamela and Tom on the curb.

"Well, uh, it's this way," Pamela said, indicating to the stairs behind her.

Tom nodded. "I don't have to come up. I don't know why—"

"It's fine. I've got a living room, TV, and snacks. It's not even nine. We can hang out. Unless you want to check into your room. I've got a car."

Pamela pointed at the silver Jetta to her left.

"Oh, well…I…it's just…this hasn't gone as planned at all," Tom sighed, looking extremely tired suddenly.

Pamela smiled softly. "No. Did you know we were going to the ranch?"

"Yes, Door told me. I just…I fell asleep, then I…well, Kirsten…then Door and Jason…"

Tom seemed to have lost his ability to use words. Pamela frowned peering at the man closely.

"You're dead on your feet, aren't you?"

"What? No. I'm not. I'm fine."

Pamela hummed. "Uh, huh."

"I am."

Pamela had a feeling if she took him upstairs, he'd fall asleep. Part of her wanted to keep him with her— the selfish part. The other part wanted load him into the car and drop him at his hotel so he could sleep.

"Come on up."

The selfish part won.

* * *

Tom lasted about a half hour before he was fast asleep on the couch, feet hanging over the side as he was too tall for the thing. Pamela had tried get him to move before he fell asleep too deeply, but failed.

She stared at the sleeping form on the couch. She grabbed a sticky note out of the desk drawer, wrote a quick note about the couch turning into a bed and stuck it to his forehead. Out of the closet in the bedroom, she grabbed the extra blanket and pillow, leaving them on the floor next to his head.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

There is a phone ringing in my ear.

"Shuddup," I mumble at the phone, whacking it with my hand a few times.

"BEN!"

"Door?"

"Sorry to call you so damn late," she mutters. "Can you email me your schedule?"

"Why on Earth do you want that?"

"I'm coming to London. I know it's rude to invite myself, but…"

"I don't mind, but what?"

"I don't know. I'm so…furibund. I thought I was just hungry, but I've eaten and I'm still…mad. And it's not that time of the month. Because then I'd be smad."

My cheeks heat up. It's much too early for me to deal with _that_. So I focus on the last thing she said. "Smad?"

"Sad and mad. Not my word. It belongs to Sookie," she announces.

"Okay," I say slowly.

"You're my man in London. I had the idea before I got pissed off. Between…yeah…and the purses, I need out. Must get out."

"I'm so confused right now."

"Just email me your schedule. I mean, I kind of know it, but at the same time I don't. Do you have to go to the Hobbit stuff in May? Like after you're done with Sherlock?"

"Yes, but not for very long."

"Okay."

"How do you even know about that?"

"Isn't there always something to do months before the movie actually comes out?" she asks. "I don't know. I follow Simon Pegg on Twitter."

I have no idea what that has to do with anything. This whole conversation is over my head. I feel like I'm missing something quite important.

"What is really wrong, Door? What's gotten you in such a state?"

She doesn't answer right away.

Ah, something is rotten in the state of Texas.

"I don't know. Everything," Door says, sighing dramatically. Something is greatly awry. I can hear it in her tone of voice and I can almost feel the tension over the phone line. "I fought with Jason. I can't remember the last time we actually fought with words."

"Do you usually not use words?" I ask, slightly horrified to hear her answer.

"No. Silence. We both go silent," Door replies. "It's weird for me to be silent, not Jason, but that's how we both deal with our anger. We go into Silent Mode and don't fight. We were all out bickering in front of Tom twice today and Pamela once."

"Oh."

"And it was so stupid. Jason got into the wrong lane both times out of habit and forgot where he was doing. He doesn't do that, that's the kind of thing I do, but he did it twice today! And then he got pissy at me when I pointed it! And we yelled at one another and then went into silent mode. We're still in it."

"Only you're not silent."

"But, I'm not talking to him," she points out.

I sigh, rubbing my face with my hand. It's too early for this. Or too late. What time is it?

"I'm sorry for waking you up," she says in a small voice.

Heart twists. Damn.

"Oh, don't worry, Door. It's fine. I have to be up in a few hours to catch a train to Bristol."

"Oh. _Sherlock_ filming."

"Yes. I've got that all week but mostly in Cardiff. Set work mostly. I'll be in London for the London premiere of _Into Darkness_ and promo, then the _Graham Norton Show_. Next week I've got two days off to do _Star Trek_ promotion in New York."

"Oh! Yeah," she says.

"You could come up to New York."

"Huh? Will you have time for me? Won't you be busy promoting?"

"Well, yeah, but if you're looking for a quick getaway from life, what better place than New York City? Have you been?"

"Yeah. But…you're right," Door said. "And I can use miles to get there. I can't get to London."

I hear clicking.

"Shouldn't you broach the subject with Jason?"

"Eh. I'm on a mission to find orange leather," she proclaims somewhat randomly. "I'm going to go to bed now. Sorry for waking you. Oh, and still send me the schedule. I still wanna go to London and I know you've got projects lined up till 2015 or something insane."

"Alright. I'll send it to you," I agree. "Goodnight, Door."

"Night, Ben."

I hang up the phone and bury my face in my hands.

There's no way I am going back to sleep.

I should be mad at Door. I should be furious at her for waking me up. But…I'm not and I feel bad because the reason I'm not angry is because I'm a bleeding twit whose glad she had a fight with her husband and her first instinct was to phone me.

Me.

The guy she's only ever met in person once.

Me.

The actor who lives in London she met once, talked to on the phone a few times, and chats almost daily with on Skype.

Me.

I'm doomed. Utterly doomed.

* * *

The morning has things looking brighter. If only because it's light out and everything looks harsher glow of day.

I never got back to sleep, so I drove to Bristol.

I shouldn't have done that.

"Are you okay?"

I'm a zombie when I'm not Sherlock.

"You ask me that often as of late," I wryly say, looking down at Martin— dressed in his morning dress finest.

"Well, it's a good question," Martin reasons. "I thought you were going to your parent's cottage for a good old fashion country weekend?"

"I did. It was lovely."

"Your interview go well?"

"Yes. It was quite fun, actually. Except the part where my mother began asking Ms Moran if she knew a nice bird for me," I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck.

Martin snorts. "She asked a reporter that?"

I nod. "Yes. She's my mum. It's impossible for her not to embarrass me in her quest for grandchildren."

Martin chortles. "Sure. So, besides that, what's bothering you?"

Martin gives me a knowing look.

"Cricket," I sigh.

"What did she do now? Amanda told me Cricket posted a picture of Tom and a cow."

"Tom is visiting Texas," I explain, then sigh. "I'm sure he found a cow."

"Do they just roam aimlessly around Texas looking for him?"

"Well, no. But, it is Tom. I'm sure they found a Texas cow for him."

"Longhorn."

I sigh.

"Stop with the sighing. What's up?"

"She had a fight with her husband," I admit, before clamping my mouth shut.

"It happens," Martin says easily. "Everyone has fights. It's normal."

Martin is looking at me as if I'm barmy.

I am barmy. I am utterly, totally round the bend.

Especially now that I am laughing like someone who needs to be sectioned.

We are friends. Friends call each other in crisis.

I'm being completely dense.

I am sure Door will have forgotten about demanding my schedule for the next three years when I speak to her later.

* * *

She doesn't forget.

I give it to her.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee. She sat up, looking around the dark room in confusion for a moment till she remembered Tom was in the other room and likely the person brewing coffee. Stumbling out of bed, Pamela went to her closet and threw on some clothes before smoothing her hair down. After making sure she didn't look like she'd just rolled out of bed, she opened the door.

Tom had in fact woken up in the middle of the night, if the new position of the couch was anything to go by. How he had moved, unfolded and refolded the sofa bed without waking her with the noise was beyond her. She took a few steps out of the room into the main living area and looked for Tom.

"Good morning!" he greeted. "Sorry about falling asleep on you."

He looked a bit sheepish.

"That's fine. Did you pull the sofa bed out or just move it?"

"Yes, on both counts. It was only a bit more comfortable extended than the couch," Tom admitted with a grimace.

"Well, sorry. I tried to get you to take the bed. You kept telling me you were going to go home," Pamela laughed.

Tom's cheeks tinted faintly pink with embarrassed.

"It's fine. You're talking to the Queen of Jet Lag," Pamela reminded him.

She excused herself to use the bathroom. When she returned, she found Tom had poured the coffee and was studying the row of cereals in the cabinet. He turned at the noise she made pulling out a bar stool.

"You enjoy cereal, I see," he teased, grinning at her.

"I do. Healthy ones are the ones I eat for breakfast, the sugary ones are for snacking on when the mood hits me."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You seem somewhat salubrious."

Pamela nodded. "If you mean healthy, then yeah. And before you say it, it has nothing to do with being in the military. If you saw some of the— never mind. I've always been like this. Thank my mom. She was always shoving healthy food down our throats. I didn't even like chocolate till I was six, didn't have fast food till I was almost ten and still can't stand to drink pop."

Tom quirked an eyebrow.

"Soda, Coke, fizzy drink," Pamela filled in. "I can't even remember what it's called depending on where I am. I didn't grow up knowing what it was really, just that I didn't like it."

Tom smiled, turning back to face the cabinet. "All the better for your teeth."

"Yeah. I tell myself that all the time," she laughed. "So, anything you'd like to see while you're here?"

"You," Tom said without missing beat as he pulled out a box of Kashi cereal. He turned to face her, motioning to the cabinet.

"I'll have what you're having," Pamela mumbled, her face flaming with heat.

Tom smirked, grabbing the two bowls out of the other cabinet.

"This kitchen is laid out rather well, or did you reorganize it upon arrival?" he inquired, setting a bowl down next to her before adding the spoon he'd grabbed at some point.

"I reorganized the entire place upon arrival," Pamela admitted. "Started in the kitchen, worked my way to the living room, and then bathroom and finally the bedroom. Though, not much to move in the bedroom. But…"

She turned and looked at the living room behind her.

"The telly was too cumbersome?"

"Yeah. Also, due to the whole cable thing, I just left it where it was. I learned not to move TVs and leave them be. Everything else is up for grabs."

Tom chuckled. "So, that was why the couch was sitting in the middle of the room?"

He indicated over his shoulder as he filled his bowl.

"It wasn't in the middle of the room," Pamela grumped as Tom poured milk over his cereal. "It was on an angle, creating a separate space from the kitchen."

"Yet, no room to unfold the bed," Tom teased, grinning at her as he shoved the spoon into his mouth.

"Yeah. I like things on angles," Pamela admitted, pouring her own bowl.

"If you could move the telly, where would you have put it?"

"I'm not sure. I think, in a perfect world, I'd put it in the corner over there. But, that's not gonna happen. I'd also have a shorter couch and a chair instead of the long couch. I don't honestly use the desk, so it's just kind of in the way. And, I could do without the TV, hence why you can't really see it from the couch. Well, before you put it back where it was before."

Tom smiled, picked his bowl up and turned to face the living room. "I'll put it back where you had it."

"Oh, you don't have to. I just…"

"Hotel rooms aren't really meant to be switched about, are they?"

"No. I think the hardest room to re-do was the one I had during my stints in Altus. It was crammed with furniture and nowhere to put it. It was a long four months with things annoying me. At least the rooms here are large enough that I can kind of get things to my liking. Oh god, I sound like a brat."

Tom gave her a smile and shook his head. "No. You simply know what you want."

He drank the milk out of his bowl and swung himself off the stool. Pamela finished off her own breakfast and followed after him.

"I heard of this thing called the River Walk. Tourist attraction. Also, I must see the Alamo," Tom said. "To answer your earlier question on what I'd like to do today."

"I don't know if the Alamo is open on Sundays," she said. "But the River Walk is mostly restaurants and I'm sure they're open by lunch. I won't be a very good tour guide, as it's been about four years since I've been down there. And I think I only ate at some restaurant and then went back to base."

"You didn't travel here often whilst living in Del Rio?"

Pamela shook her head as she finished her breakfast. "No. Door and Jason did. I usually remained behind with Basil."

Tom's face darkened at the mention of the barking dog.

Pamela smirked at him, rinsing her bowl in the sink. He shimmed up next to her and they did the dishes together.

* * *

The Alamo was indeed closed, but they were able to stand outside the gates and stare at it. Tom snapped a few shots of it with his cell phone through the gates.

"The garden out back is nice," Pamela offered, holding the bars with both hands and peering at the stone building beyond their reach. "But other than that, I don't really remember much about it."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. So, we've done the River Walk, took a boat trip and have stood outside the Alamo. Now what?"

Tom grinned and held out one huge hand. Pamela looked up, staring at his face. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses and she had no idea what he wanted. Her hand? Since LA, if he wanted her hand, he just took it.

(Since LA? That was last WEEK. When had it become natural to HOLD HANDS with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston?)

"Phone, darling," he said, wiggling his fingers.

Pamela laughed a little uncomfortably, forking her iPhone over.

Tom flicked his finger across the screen before handing it back to her to put the pass code in (which she did) before flicking his finger a few more times. He proceeded to do something else before handing the phone back to her.

"What did you do?"

"Sent the stealth photos you took to myself. Also left you my number."

He wiggled his eyebrows at her. He took her hand, weaving their fingers together and tugged her off towards the statue that sat in the plaza behind them.

* * *

It was insanely too easy to forget Tom Hiddleston was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston. Throughout the morning and afternoon in downtown San Antonio, a few people had noticed Tom and realized who he was (knowing from Twitter or whatever Kirsten had done he was in the area). These people usually requested photos or autographs, but for the most part Tom was left alone.

No one noticed Pamela— even if she was holding his hand.

If she were the sort to need attention, she knew she'd develop some sort of complex from this treatment. As it was, she was almost thankful no one bothered to take notice of her.

And yet, even with all these interruptions, it wasn't until she was standing in the parking garage at the airport she suddenly remembered Tom Hiddleston was in fact Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston.

He was a famous actor and he was about to go back to LA to do…whatever famous actors did when not making movies.

"You never told me what you meant," she blurted out, her voice somehow too loud and young sounding.

Tom paused in taking his overnight back out of her trunk. He did not say anything, just stared at her for the longest time. He set the bag back into the trunk and turned to face her.

"I did not, did I?"

Pamela shook her head, wringing her hands together.

She suddenly felt like a nervous teenager— all knobby knees, pointy elbows, and metal braces callousing the inside of her mouth.

Pamela had never been anything but awkward when relationships began. Her first kiss was embarrassing and wierd. It failed to live up to her expectations.

She never expected tongues, teeth, and other things to be included in first kisses. Kisses were supposed to be sweet, but Pamela's first kiss was mostly a guy shoving his tongue against her closed lips and Pamela staring at him in confusion.

It hadn't gotten much better after that. Even with the guy she thought she loved, kissing had been a somewhat of a painful embarrassing experience for some reason. She always felt she was missing something.

She wanted a manual on how to do it properly, but had yet to find one much to her annoyance.

And now, how she was face with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston and he looked like he was on a mission.

Tom took two steps closer to her, an intense look in his eyes. He gently took Pamela's fidgeting hands and wove his fingers through hers on each hand and used his thumb to rub circles on her wrists in an attempt to calm her down. His eyes softened a little upon finding her pulse racing.

She gave an uncomfortable laugh, feeling as if she was spiraling out of control.

Nothing made sense.

Everything always made sense— even her lackluster track record with the opposite sex made sense when Pamela realized that she might be pretty, but she lacked any skill when it came to the physical side of relationships. She couldn't even hug properly.

Tom lowered his head and made a hushing noise.

"Calm down, darling," he whispered in her ear.

This ought to have been really uncomfortable for a couple reasons, one being the overly humid air around them, but Pamela shivered.

"Have you ever listened to 'Back to Black' by Amy Winehouse?" Tom asked, drawing back so he could look at her.

"I don't know. How does it go?" Pamela asked, wondering why Tom had brought this up at this moment.

Their time was running out.

Time was running out.

That was a song. By some British band Door loved. And Door claimed it was her theme song. Actually, Door had several themes songs.

"It's not a very happy song about a woman having an affair— or it could be a relationship, but likely an affair— with a man who decides to keep going back to another woman. One line keeps running through my head, which can be taken out of the context of the song."

Pamela nodded, staring at Tom's chest.

He seemed to have a thing for v-neck t-shirts. Each time he'd worn one, it'd been a v-neck.

Jason hated v-necks. You had to wear v-necks with blues and Jason hated blues.

Pamela hated blues because she had to wear a skirt and hose. Luckily, she was a pilot, so she usually lived in a flight suit.

"'We only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times,'" Tom recited in only a way Tom could.

Pamela tore her gaze up off his chest and met his eyes— those blue-blue-blue-blue eyes. If Pamela was writing a sappy romance, she'd state she could get lost in those eyes, they were holding the sea or something else fluffy.

Pamela wasn't writing a sappy romance. She was living her life— as dreamlike as it'd become— and she honestly felt her breath hitch in taking in the expression on his face.

She had to look away.

"After you left I felt like such a twit," Tom softly said, squeezing both her tiny hands in his larger ones.

Why had she not noticed how large those things were before? He could likely crush her head in a hand.

He let go of her right hand and used his now free hand to tilt her chin upwards to look at him again.

"All weekend I've been waiting for the right time, the right moment and I doubt it'll ever come. The romantic in me wants it to be special, the perfect moment, the kind you know is just right," he explained. His eyes darted between hers, flicking to her lips for a moment before coming back to her own eyes. "But, you're not a romantic, are you?"

Pamela shook her head.

Her mouth was dry.

"Well…"

Suddenly, he was really in her space, but nowhere near her mouth. She felt his lips brush her cheek, just as he had that first morning she'd met him when he did that strange European kiss greeting, only he didn't just brush and move this time— he lingered, pressing feather light kisses along her cheek.

And shivers shot down her spine and her toes curled.

That was new.

She felt his nose brush hers and their breath mingled together as he moved so he was facing her once more.

Now she was dizzy.

Did Tom Hiddleston emote some sort of drug that made you cold and dizzy? Or did she need more sugar in her diet?

Pamela wasn't sure what really happened, how their lips exactly wound up meeting, or how she didn't suddenly turn into an awkward mess she'd always reverted to in the past when faced with first kisses (or kisses in general). She wasn't sure when she reached up and (somehow) looped her arm around Tom's neck, pulling him closer. Later, she wouldn't be able to tell you who deepened the kiss first, who took the final steps to put them so close they were wrapped around one another, who turned so they were against the car, who shut the trunk or who broke off the kiss first.

The only thing she was able to tell Door later was:

It wasn't a goodbye. It was a hello.

Tom never did explain how to say goodbye without words. He did show her how to say hello.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


	10. The Mot Juste

**_The Mot Juste_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Skipping was not exactly the most manly activity Tom could engage in, but he was too happy walk as a normal being. He'd already done the Silly Walk more times than was amusing, so skipping was called for, excessive smiling was called for— Tom was fully in a rhathymia mode. And he was in his own hotel room— who was going to see him skipping around?

"You've got to stop doing that," Luke said, shutting the door behind him as he entered Tom's hotel suite.

"It's actually a rather good physical activity to partake in," Tom offered, though he did stop skipping across the lounge.

"Yeah, but you're in a suit," Luke reminded him with a roll of his eyes. "Now, here's the schedule for tonight. Zach and Chris both confirmed."

"Oh! Brilliant. I haven't seen either in much too long," Tom commented, glancing out the window.

"You're confirmed to attend the after party, as well," Luke went on.

Tom hummed, pulling out his mobile to check it.

He had one text message.

_Done. Forgot how much I hate flying the t-6. Smells like puke._

Tom chuckled.

Pamela had had her first flight today and she'd been quite nervous about the whole thing— even though she'd flown the plane before and passed pilot training with honors from what Door had told him. Pamela had been given the award for best student upon gradation.

"Earth to Tom. Earth to Tom."

"Pardon?" Tom asked, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Luke sighed, giving him a look that might peel the wallpaper off the wall behind Tom if Luke tried hard enough.

"You've been walking around with your head in the clouds all week," Luke sighed. "And while I bet your fans love it because of how many photos everyone has of you beaming at the world, there is a limit till they'll figure something is up. Is there something you want to tell me?"

Luke gave him a pointed look and waited.

"I'm Elysian, gladsome, and full of beatitude. Is it a malversation now?" Tom asked.

Luke sighed at Tom's verbomania.

"I am your publicist, Tom. I deal with your image," Luke reminded Tom.

Tom forgot sometimes Luke actually had a job to do and wasn't simply his friend. Tom blended and erased the lines between employer and employee with many of the people who he employed in regard to his career— he hated thinking people were only around him because Tom paid them.

"You pay me to make you look good," Luke said, then took note of the expression on Tom's face. "And you're my friend, so you need to tell me what I'm dealing with."

"Me."

"The girl. She's…not an actress, not a model, and not a public figure in any sense of the word if her body language was anything to go by at the MTV Movie Awards."

"No. I told you, she's a pilot," Tom said, frowning. "What are you trying to tell me? You don't get involved in my personal life. You've never asked this sort of thing before."

Luke sighed, looking away from Tom. "I know. But, you're…getting larger than life, Tom. Your personal life is going to be public if you keep going as you are."

Tom scoffed. "I've been seeing Pamela for almost two weeks and have been out in public with her often— any rumors?"

Luke frowned.

"Photos?"

Luke frowned deeper.

"Exactly. And Ben told me that the ones that have surface have her wrongly identified," Tom went on, fishing his mobile out. He opened up the email Ben had sent out to both Tom and Door earlier in the week showing a photo of Tom on the Orange Purse Day with Pamela on the tube taken by a fan that had surfaced on Tumblr. The person identified Pamela as Cricket Heidi.

"Door thought it was hilarious," Tom went on as Luke flicked his finger over the surface of Tom's phone. "And I haven't found any photos from this past weekend other than the one Door posted and the fans posted of me at the ranch."

"Yeah, but why were you there? You just suddenly fancied yourself a tour guide and went out and found a random ranch?"

"Yes."

Luke sighed a long suffering sort of sigh Tom didn't usually cause.

"I am friends with Cricket Heidi, along with Ben," Tom tried. "They can choose to draw whatever conclusions they wish."

"She's in the military."

"Cricket?"

"No. Pamela," Luke said, using her name for the first time. He looked tired. "She's active duty, American military.

"Would it make a difference if she were British?" Tom asked, trying to figure out what Luke was getting at.

Luke did not reply, but looked away. He fiddled with the phone before grabbing his tablet and flicking through things on the screen. He set Tom's mobile on the coffee table and moved towards the door.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. Luke?"

"It would," he simply said. "You are British."

"I noticed, darling," Tom drawled. "Are you trying to rain on my parade?"

"No. No, I'm not. I don't know what I'm trying to do, if I'm honest."

Luke was still not looking at Tom. He sighed deeply and looked up when Tom started tapping his toe against the carpet in impatience.

"Are you sure?" Luke questioned.

"Yes."

"Then, fine. It doesn't matter what I think then," Luke softly said, putting the tablet under his arm. "Let's go. Don't want to be late."

Luke opened the hotel door and held it open for Tom. Tom grabbed his jacket and slid it on. He snagged his mobile off the coffee table, pocketing it as he cross the room.

"I feel as if we just had a major fight and now we're not speaking about it," Tom mused, pausing next to Luke. He studied the other man's face.

"We did not have a fight. I forget sometimes you tend to forget I'm your publicist sometimes before a friend," Luke quietly said. "I was thinking like a publicist, not your friend."

"Dating a service member would be bad press for myself?"

Luke slowly looked up at Tom and sighed deeply.

"It'll…it'll make her life a little difficult," Luke replied, looking away from Tom again. "I did research, asked around. It's roughly a ten year commitment. She's what? A captain? She's been in for five or four years, Tom."

Tom took the door from Luke and closed it.

"Six years this May," Tom said quietly.

"Well, at least she hit the halfway point," Luke said, laughing a little uncomfortably. "I'm just saying, she's still in the early stages of her career in the military. She also moves every three or four years, right? She deploys, goes on missions. She's gone a lot."

"I am an actor, Luke. I know that did not escape your notice. I'm hardly ever in once place for long either."

"I know. That is my point. Do you really want—"

"Yes. Matters of the heart don't always make sense," Tom quickly said.

"Okay."

"This is a heavy conversation," Tom noted, chuckling. He looked at the closed door, his hand still gripping the knob.

"I guess it's better she's not in some sort of super secret branch of the military," Luke sighed. "And I guess…well, if Prince Harry can go to war, I'm sure Pamela Fitch will be able to continue doing whatever she does."

"Luke, she's a pilot. Currently, she's training to teach other people to fly."

"Well, then," Luke said, nodding his head as if the conversation was really over this time.

Tom reopened the door, stepping through it. He watched Luke as they headed out to the car that would take them to the premiere of _Iron Man 3_. He knew Luke had a point, yet he couldn't bring himself to see either of their careers as an issue. Pamela was independent. While he knew they'd miss one another when they were busy and unable to see one another, this was the day and age of communication technology. There was almost no reason for one to be out of communication with another human being for too long. There was texting, phones, and video chatting. Tom knew he'd been spoiled— being in LA and her being in San Antonio— but he couldn't see communication being an issue in the future unless she had a super secret mission.

Pamela had laughed when he's brought it up.

"What? I fly the T-6 now," she'd chuckled, rolling her eyes over the video chat.

Pamela was used to carrying on long distance relationships. She was good friends with Door and hadn't seen Door in person till recently. During the time Pamela was in Seattle and Door was in Anchorage, they maintained a rather close friendship via the internet. They spent their Sundays watching Masterpiece Theater over the phone. They texted, called and emailed.

The same thing went for Pamela's family in Colorado Springs. Pamela was close to her family. She'd seen them more often than Door (who seemed to be her only really close friend she kept in constant contact with— that might have been more Door than Pamela's doing).

It was early in the relationship. They were still getting to know one another, figuring things out.

They hadn't even had _that_ discussion— the relationship talk. That dreaded talk where you labeled yourself with titles.

Tom shook his head as he stepped out of the hotel. A few fans had discovered where he was staying and waiting for him. He looked up from the ground where his eyes had been as he thought things through. He put a smile on his face and raised a hand in greeting.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I can't believe this is happening.

This kind of thing doesn't happen to me.

How did this happen to me?

Is there another word for _happen_. It's getting old.

Where the hell am I?

And why am I so fat? I look like I swallowed—

I'm not pregnant.

OMG.

I am pregnant. How the frack did I fail to notice that?

I'm like six months pregnant!

Am I about to be on _I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?_

"Door, darling, are you going to come out and face the music?"

Is that Tom? What the hell? Why does he sound so nasty?

I'm so befuddled.

"I don't know," I answer.

How the hell am I pregnant? I thought I was infertile?

Clearly, that's not the case.

What…oh, could I be dreaming? I've dreamed I was knocked up before.

"DOOR!"

Why the hell is Tom yelling at me?

OH CRAP. I'm not at home. Where the hell am I?

"TOM! Stop yelling at her!"

Ben's here.

Oh, thank god. Ben!

I fling the door open to reveal a rather angry Tom Hiddleston, who smirks at me _a la _Loki.

"You're so dead," he taunts.

"Tom!"

Ben shoves Tom out of the way, a concerned look on his face as he spots me. He searches my face for a moment before he hugs me and starts to assure me it'll be okay. He's murmuring sweet assurances into my ear while Tom Hiddleston gives me the most haterific look I've ever seen.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Tom spits at me.

"Tom! You are not helping!" Ben snaps, pulling back to glare at Tom.

"Oh, but aren't I?"

Tom is really channeling his inner Loki. And it looks like all kinds of wrong on his Tom Hiddleston face.

Wait…does that make sense?

"Tom!" Ben shouts.

"Oh, shut up, Benedict," Tom sneers.

I'm getting mad. Like really mad at Tom Hiddleston. He is not being NICE. How DARE he not be nice to me!

"This not my fault! I thought I was infertile! I haven't been on birth control since I ran out in Alaska! That was three years ago! How the hell am I pregnant?"

Tom snorts and shakes his head as if he cannot believe I'm so stupid.

"Please, tell me the American school system explained—"

"TOM!"

Tom folds is arms across his chest and glares.

"Door, sweetheart, it'll be fine. This is a good thing."

Tom huffs disdainfully.

"How? I don't understand."

"I don't understand," Tom mocks in a similar manner Jason uses when he mocks some of his fellow pilot students when they fail to grasp something that should be easy.

"But, I don't! I'm clearly pregnant!" I motion to my belly.

Ben smiles. Happily. He looks funny. Why does he look funny?

"Where's Jason?"

"Oh, now she remembers him!" Tom sneers.

What the hell is going on?

"Oh, don't worry about him," Ben assures, putting an arm around me. "He doesn't need to know."

"How? What? I'm married to him!"

Ben and Tom both give me two very different looks. Ben looks pained and Tom rolls his eyes and it appears to think I'm an idiot.

I am.

"Where's Basil? I want Basil," I moan, trying to escape from Ben.

"Basil is back in the States," Ben says, sadly.

"Stupid dog," Tom says. "Jason should leave that mutt back in that field they found her drooling in."

"TOM!" both Ben and I shout.

Tom puts his hands up. "Fine. Whatever."

Tom exits the room, slamming the door.

"It'll be fine. We'll be the best parents."

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I sit up, panting, and quickly put my hands on my stomach to find it flat. (Well, as flat as it can get. I'm no Victoria Secret model, but I am clearly not pregnant.) I stare around the dark room. Jason is sleeping (of course, what else would he be doing) and is about as far away from me as he can get.

We're still not speaking to one another.

Never before have I regretted living in a tiny one bedroom apartment and renting a crappy couch more so than I do now. I cannot sleep on the couch. Jason refuses to sleep on the couch. He also refuses to make up with me. Usually, how our fights work are that we both get mad, stop speaking to one another and at some point, we go back to how we were before as neither of us remember what we were fighting about. (If it is important, we work it out, but most of our fights are stupid.)

I forgot what I was mad about, so I've been trying to talk to him, but he refuses to speak to me. He leaves early in the morning, stranding me in the apartment, and doesn't come back till bedtime. He takes a shower and goes to bed.

I feel rotten, but I can't figure out what I did to piss him off so much.

I've never pissed him off for more than an hour.

Okay, once he fell asleep and I was mad the entire night, but when he finally woke up in the morning, he didn't remember that I was mad.

Which only made me madder, but then we had words and things were fine.

I don't know what to do.

Nor does Ben.

Ben doesn't fight with people. He apologizes. Constantly.

I tried apologizing. Jason hummed and slammed the door to the bathroom. I almost thought he was going to sleep in the garden tub he was in there for so long, but he waited till he thought I was asleep before coming to bed.

I don't know what is wrong.

I swallow heavily and ease out of bed, knowing I cannot go back to sleep after that strange dream I just had.

Tom was mean to me!

That must mean something, right? Can Tom be mean? (Well, clearly, he can act mean. He's had roles that required him to be mean. I thought Freddie was mean…but then, Hester had her own issues. So his rage was somewhat understandable. And then, Loki anyone?)

Oh, it was just a silly dream.

I pad out into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind me. I stare at the mess in the dining room for a moment and sigh. I pick my phone up from where I left it charging and check the time.

It's three in the morning.

I really want to call Ben, but he's likely filming. Better text, then he can answer between takes.

I don't know what to say.

I sit down on the couch, drawing my legs up to my chest and stare blankly ahead. I hear scratching on the closed bedroom door. I get up and open it. Basil slinks out, looking up at me and pretending to be adorable.

"Hey," I say to her, shutting the door again. I go back to the couch and wave an arm indicating she can get up. She doesn't jump up to her spot, though, at the other end of the couch— the spot farthest from where I sit. Instead, she leaps up next to me, putting her furry self right up against my side. She cuddles into me, acting very unlike her usual self.

She only acts like this when I don't feel good.

I don't feel good. I feel like crap.

I feel broken and I don't know why.

I lean over and hug the dog. She lets me. She even gives me a few licks, as if that will make everything better.

I love my dog.

* * *

Things don't get better by the time the week draws to a close. Jason texts me on Friday afternoon to say he's spending the weekend at Dan's.

I'm not sure how he got to work this AM, as the car is parked outside. At least I can leave now.

Tom's been in town since Thursday. Pamela dumped him at the apartment on Friday so I could entertain him, failing to realize I had no car so all he could do was watch TV while I sewed together ugly orange purses. Pamela picked him up and I haven't seen either since.

I'm on auto pilot. I make purses, I eat when my stomach tells me to and I respond when someone speaks. I put on a show worthy of an Oscar.

I'm sure no one has caught on I'm a miserable wreck.

How did this happen?

What even happened?

Why have I not figured out a better word for _happen_?

How'd I miss I was having martial issues? I know I'm kind of dense, but wouldn't I notice there was a problem in my own freaking marriage?

Clearly, something happened that I was unaware of and is…making Jason angry.

I can't even tell if Jason is mad at me or is just tired of me.

People do get tired of me. I'm kind of annoying.

The computer is ringing.

I turn the laptop to face me on the table where I'm piecing together yet another ugly orange purse.

Why does everyone want an ugly orange bag just because Tom Hiddleston had one?

"Hey, Ben," I greet answering Skype.

"Hey. You look as tired as I feel," he jokes, eyeing me.

"It's like…"

I am too exhausted to do the time conversion to figure out what time it is in England. Or where ever he is. I don't even know what time it is here. Time is meaningless.

"Late. I know," Ben agrees. "We just finished up for the evening. Set work can get done in a timely manner. No worrying about the weather."

He chuckles.

"True. Weather is a hazard. To many a thing," I lament. "I hate orange."

"I know, dear," Ben calmly agrees. "Door…"

"Ben?"

"Where's Jason?"

I freeze, glancing up at the screen where Ben is peering at me in question.

"In the other room?"

"No, he's not. Basil is on the floor behind you," he points out. "Pointedly staring at you."

Traitor dog.

"He's not here. He left."

"Left?"

"He went to hang out with Dan and those other dogs," I say, turning my attention to the purse I'm working on. Even though I know it's rude, I start sewing. The machine is clangorous and I'm not paying attention so I almost sew my finger to the seam of the purse.

Some colorful cursing happens. Occurs. OCCURS. No more happening.

"Door."

"What?" I snap.

"What is going on?"

I burst into tears.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Oh, dear.

She's crying.

All out bawling.

I cannot see her face, as she's moved out of the view of the camera on her laptop. I can hear her though.

It's painful.

I want to be there to comfort her, while at the same time I wish to look away and allow her to cry in private. Over the noise of her sobbing, I hear the click of Basil's nails as she walks across the floor. Door's hair comes into view and she begins mumbling at the dog. She finally sits up, picking Basil up and hugs the dog to her.

Basil looks miserable.

"Door?"

"I don't know! I don't know!" she cries, burying her face in Basil's fur. Basil looks like she wants to make a break for it, but at the same time is resigned to her captivity within Door's arms. The dog gives up any resistance suddenly, cuddling into Door.

At least Basil is there for her and she's not sitting alone in her apartment feeling retched.

"I know you and Jason have been having trouble…but, still no resolution?"

"No."

"No?"

"He won't talk to me except to grunt or hum at me. I've tried to speak to him, but he isn't budging. I don't know what's wrong. He's avoided me all week and then sent me a text on Friday he was going to Dan's all weekend. Our time is running out! We're moving in May!"

She loosens her grip on Basil and Basil vanishes with a resounding thump on the floor. Door stares blankly off to the left.

"I had a dream and Tom was mean to me," she randomly says.

"Uh…"

"He was really mean," she sniffs. "Like really mean. And he wasn't in character or anything, he was just Tom. And he was mean to me."

I have no clue how to respond to that.

"And I was pregnant. It was weird," she goes on, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

I shift, feeling uncomfortable.

"I don't know what to do, but I can't sit around here any longer," she says, suddenly sounding stronger. She's wearing a fierce look on her face and grabs the laptop, dragging it closer to her.

Her eyes are red and puffy, but she looked utterly determined.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving," she states flatly.

She violently uses the track pad. The entire laptop shakes.

"Shouldn't you speak to Jason before—"

"I've tried that," she says. "I'm going away and when I get back if he wants to talk, then fine. Oh, hey, is it okay if I crash with you? Hey, when are you going to be in London?"

"Uh…don't you have my schedule?" I lamely asked.

I click around on the laptop to find my schedule while Door is still violently doing whatever she's doing on her own laptop. Or there is an earthquake happening in Texas.

"I have filming for Sherlock in Cardiff mostly. I'll be in London on the second of May to do _Into Darkness_ press."

There is more clicking, more punching keys on the laptop on Door's end. She is dangerously silent wearing a look of determination on her face. I put a hand over my eyes and drag it over my face, unsure what to say and unsure how to make her feel better or stop her from…

Do I want to stop her?

Don't answer that.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

"We should have the conversation."

"What conversation?"

"You know."

"No, Thomas, I do not know. Aren't we having a conversation?"

"Yes, we are having one, but we ought to…sort things out before I go back to London."

"Sort things out?"

"Yes, you know…"

Tom waved a large hand around, Pamela watching it out of the corner of her eye as they sat entwined on the massively uncomfortable couch in her hotel room. They had been ensconced on the couch since waking up that morning, enjoying their last hours together till Tom had to catch his flight back to London.

"Know what? Thomas, just spit it out," Pamela said, staring at him over her shoulder.

"Labels."

Pamela lifted herself off of Tom and stared at him.

"You need a label? The ones you have aren't enough?" she teased.

Tom leveled her a look, then sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back onto the arm of the couch. Sprawled out as he was, he took up an awful lot of room.

"I know what you're talking about," Pamela allowed, poking him in the stomach.

That got an instant reaction.

Tom was ticklish.

It was utterly, sickeningly adorable.

"Does Luke wish to issue a press release?" Pamela asked, grinning as Tom wrapped his arms around his middle to protect himself.

"No. No," Tom assured. "There is no need for a press release, or a statement at the moment."

"Will there be need for one in the future?" Pamela asked, frowning. "I don't know how you people work. I know when something…bad happens, famous people issue statements, but…do they really issue one when they date…non-famous people?"

"I do not believe they usually do. I guess sometimes they issue statements stating they are dating, but I can't think…no. I…"

Tom trailed off, frowning.

"Do you want to issue a statement between us so it is clear in your head?"

And mine too, Pamela added silently.

She was not sure how dating worked when one wasn't in high school. Her last boyfriend had been in college, but she'd met him in high school. They'd done the whole, "Will you go out with me?" thing awkwardly over the phone after being awkward a few days after sucking face like it was going out of style. (She was sure he wouldn't call her again after that disaster.)

"It is clear in my head," Tom stated, a series expression appearing. His eyes burned with something Pamela was unable to place as he added, "I've no desire to see anyone else in the manner I see you, darling."

The _you're mine_ was left unsaid.

And kind of barbaric, but there was a little piece of Pamela that wanted to belong to someone, to be claimed as a romantic attachment. While she wasn't a romantic and lacked any sense of romance, she was human and wanted to belong. Yeah, she belonged to the Air Force, she belonged to her family, but she wanted…something else. Wanted to belong…well, to Tom.

Pamela flushed, looking down and fiddling with the ratty edge of the t-shirt she was wearing. Tom reached up and placed his larger than average hands on either side of her face. (It must look seriously ridiculous— her tiny head in his huge hands…)

"I am…quite serious about…you," Tom offered, that adorable wrinkle appearing between his eyes he got when he was thinking hard or was, in fact, quite serious.

Pamela reached up and smoothed the wrinkle out with her thumb. "I know."

She knew she ought to scream, be scared out of her head, and screech it was too fast, too much, too soon— but she felt none of that.

Everything felt right.

She knew she ought to be bothered they'd almost never see on another— between her job and his job— but they'd figure it out. It was the information age and there was almost nowhere in the world difficult to get to these days.

"So, we'll be exclusive? You won't see other guys, I will not pay attention to other females."

Pamela snorted, lowering her head. "Uh, huh."

"Unless they are fans and require my attention," Tom amended.

"Sure. What about co-stars? You going to avoid eye contact with them?"

"As long as you promise to break the nose of all your students who are amp to hit on you," Tom offered.

"Not allowed."

"Well, it tends to be frowned upon to stare at your co-star unless the script calls for it. Or they demand it when you're speaking to one another. I do try to be friendly," Tom teased.

"You are utterly…ridiculous," Pamela huffed.

Tom dropped her face and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him. She snuggled in and closed her eyes.

"I guess there would be a fraternization rule," Tom mused quietly.

Pamela huffed again. "Of course. We're the military. We love rules."

Tom chuckled. Pamela pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of his laugh in her ear— along with the thump of his heartbeat.

It was still surreal she was allowed to do this, to hear his heartbeat and be this close.

"We need to get food," Pamela remembered, pressing her face into his chest. She pushed herself up and moved to roll off the couch. "I have nothing to feed you before your flight."

"Oh. What time is it?"

"Afternoon?" Pamela tried. "No clue. We've been ignoring the clock all day. We can go to HEB. It's just down the road. Only requires highway driving because the access road doesn't go all the way through for some bizarre reason."

Tom laughed loudly, forever amused by how San Antonio constructed its roadways. Pamela grinned, enjoying the sound of that laugh that she was learning was quite well known.

"Oh. Next time you have leave and we can get our schedules to cooperate, you must meet Chris."

Pamela froze, searching her head for who the hell Chris was. She stared blankly at Tom for a moment.

"Not the Chris you met that you always and forever will call Chris Evans," Tom chuckled, gracefully sitting up and swinging himself off the couch. "Hemsworth? The man who plays Thor?"

Pamela blinked a few times, trying to put a face with the name.

"You've got no clue," Tom fondly said, smiling. He trucked her hair behind her ears and fondly pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead before moving passed her. "Google him, darling. I'll be back."

Pamela flipped her laptop open and booted it up. She opened a browser and googled the name— it popped up instantly before she had to hazard how to spell it correctly. She was greeted by a large, beefy, looking blond man. She hit images and saw quite a few of the man with Tom, mostly because they'd both recently attended the _Iron Man 3_ premiere together. She closed the laptop.

"He was in the _Stark Trek_ movie," Pamela supplied.

Tom chuckled. "How on Earth do you remember that, yet you fail to remember he was in _Thor_ with me?"

Pamela felt her cheek go pink as Tom quietly laughed at her. She raked a hand through her hair, looking for her phone. Tom grabbed her around the waist, kissing her head before handing her phone (which also doubled as her wallet thanks to a clever phone cover). She slipped it into her pocket and smiled up at him.

"I'm sorry. I'm still trying to come to grips that the Macarana is no longer a thing," she lied. "It's hard to keep track of all these new people on top of all the new people in my class. I'm horrible with names, as you well know."

"I know, darling," Tom said, sounding more fond than annoyed. "Anyways, _Christopher_ and Elsa would love to meet you."

Pamela felt her cheeks heat up more, wondering just how much Tom had spoken about her to people.

"Likely, I won't see him till the _Thor 2_ premiere. Will you be able to take leave in November?"

"Uh, likely. I don't know. I don't have…well, you know."

Pamela had tried her best to forget her up in the air assignment. She thought she was going to Del Rio with the Abercrombies, but the other day she'd gotten an email from McChord (still technically her base) stating there was a problem with her orders and she might not be going to Del Rio. She was still flying the stupid T-6, but the base might be changing and they'd let her know.

She wasn't…happy.

"Yes," Tom said quietly, knowing perfectly well what she was not saying. "Let's go find food. I'm sure everything will look better when we've eaten more than cereal."

Pamela doubted it, but nodded nevertheless.

* * *

Pamela stared at the copy of her new orders.

"Well?"

She looked up suddenly at one of her fellow IP students. He sat down next to her, staring at the paper in her hands.

"Oh, bust. You're going to Vance."

Pamela frowned. "Yeah."

"Might be better," another guy said from the other side of the room.

"Better?" Pamela asked. "All my stuff is in Del Rio."

There was a round of snorts from all her fellow IP students and the instructors. Everyone in the room knew the hassles of moving— some more than others.

"It'll be easier to see your boyfriend," the first guy (Andrew, his name tag supplied once Pamela could read it) offered. "No three hour drive to the airport. It's just an hour to OKC from Enid."

Pamela blankly stared at him. It made sense he knew how long it took to get to the airport (he'd gone through pilot training at Vance), but the other thing he said was the cause of the blank look.

He grinned.

"My wife saw it somewhere online. She showed me, as she thought it was the HEB we use. She was mad we went to the commissary instead," Andrew went on. He yanked out his cell phone and punched the face a few times. His phone buzzed. "My wife just sent me the link. I'll send it to you."

Pamela pulled out her own phone and waited to get the text. She hit the link and was taken to some website she'd never heard of and stared at herself and Tom walking out of HEB.

She wished she'd worn nicer clothes.

"Lemme see!"

"Who is that?"

"Why's Fitch on the internet?"

Pamela glanced up to find the other boys (they were not men as they were acting like teenagers) to find them all battling over Andrew's phone.

It was honestly amazing almost every one of them was married.

"Wait…isn't that the dude…wait, who is he?"

"I don't know."

"He played Loki in the _Avengers_ movie last summer," Pamela offered.

They all stared at her as if she had three heads.

"How do you know him?"

Pamela smiled as her phone buzzed.

_YOU FORGOT MY BAG YOU TRAITOR!_

Pamela chuckled at the text Door had sent her, standing and leaving the briefing room. The boys all went back to bickering over Andrew's phone and how it was possible that Pamela Fitch knew a famous person (the photo didn't claim she and Tom were dating— in fact it said nothing about the girl holding Tom's hand strangely. Just an excited fangirl stating she saw Tom at her local grocery store).

**How's London?**

_Brilliant. Don't think I'll be leaving. Oh, thx for sending Tom._

**You're welcome. Figured it wouldn't hurt to have a familiar face.**

_Yeah. Might not have been thinking clearly when I planned this._

**Well, let me know when you decide to come home.**

_Will do. Tom is demanding my attention._

**Okay. Tell him I'll talk with him when I get home. **

Pamela knew when Door was ready, Pamela would get the real story on why she felt the need to run away to London without planning anything other than making sure Ben was somewhere in the country (he was in Cardiff, not London). Pamela hadn't wanted to go along with Door's insanity, but something in her expression when she turned up at Pamela's hotel on Sunday afternoon with a bunch of bags told Pamela to shut up and drive the woman to the airport.

Pocketing her phone, Pamela headed back to the flight room, where the boys were still battling over Andrew's phone.

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 6 September 2013_


	11. Door Invades a Press Junket

**_Door Invades a Press Junket and Some Other Stuff_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I really wanted to sing that song from _Moulin Rouge_ as my connection took off from O'Hare. I had hummed this song about flying away to myself in 2004 when the I jetted off into the muggy late August overcast evening for greater and better things in London. Instead, I couldn't remember the words or tune, so I just kept thinking _I'm on a plane, I'm on a muthafracking plane!_

Then I shoved an Ambien down my throat and passed out till I was over UK airspace.

This caused me to be groggy through customs. I am pretty sure I told the woman I was on a mission from God.

At least I'd finally stopped thinking _I'm on a plane, I'm on a muthafracking plane_ in my head on loop. I was also no longer on a plane.

Now I'm in the baggage claim. There is this guy who seriously looks like Tom Hiddleston standing over ways. Other people think this taller than average person is someone famous, as they keep asking for photos and forking things over for him to scribble on. I'm not sure if he's Tom. No one is screaming TOM HIDDLESTON!

Then again, I'm in England— land of keep calm and carry on.

"Door!"

This is what happens when you take drugs that weren't prescribed to you, people. You see Tom Hiddleston in airports signing autographs after likely telling a custom agent you're on a mission from God.

She did laugh at me, so maybe she thought I was just being funny and quoting _Blues Brothers_? I did just come from Chicago.

"DOROTHEA!"

Whoa. Who else has my name?

"Pardon, I think he's speaking to you," says a woman next to me, lightly pulling on the sleeve of my sweater.

"Me?" I ask, looking over at the kind old woman.

She gives me a smile and nods. "He's looked over at you quite a few times as he attempted to get away from his admirers. I take it he's famous?"

"If he is who I think he is," I allow. "Why is he here? I only told Ben and Pamela—"

Oh.

Pamela must have told Tom about my flying off to London half cocked. I had planned to find a hotel as soon as I found some free Wi-Fi. They do that in London, right?

I'm such a ditz.

"Bless you, thank you," says a man who sounds like Tom Hiddleston somewhere above my head. "I thought she wasn't going to ever stop."

"You're welcome, young man," the old woman says. "I sat next to her on the plane. She was out like a light the whole flight."

She gives me a look, one that I can't exactly pick out in my dazed state.

Tom somehow managed to get my luggage. How on earth did he know the bright polka dot stuff was mine? When did it come out of the thingy? I was standing right next to it. I sure didn't tell him what luggage belonged to me.

Mental note: DO NOT TAKE AMBIEN.

Why did Jason even have any? He saw green bunnies when he tested it out. Not that he needs help falling asleep.

Tom exchanges a few more pleasantries with the old woman before he guides me out of the airport to a waiting car. There are cameras going off all around us, mostly cell phones.

This is so bizarre.

"Will Pamela be jealous?" I inquire. "And will I hate you when I'm not so foggy because my hair looks like a bird's nest?"

"Your hair looks fine, darling," Tom assures, putting the luggage into the boot of the car that is sitting along the curb.

"Do you drive?"

"Not usually. Pamela mentioned you had packed as if you were moving house," Tom says, sounding a combination of curious and uncomfortable. "What did you tell customs?"

"I think I might have said I was on a mission from God," I say in a Chicago accent.

I don't expect Tom to get it, but he belts out in a full on Tom Hiddleston Laugh™. Several people turn and stare. I'm sure more cameras snapped.

"I…I don't know why they let me in," I say, looking around.

OMG.

I am in fracking London.

I paid two thousand dollars for a business class ticket, one way, to London.

And I didn't make a hotel arrangement.

Or arrangements to get my butt to Cardiff, where Ben is currently located until the second.

I am an idiot.

I did close my shop down, right?

I hope Basil is okay.

OMG.

I left Basil alone in the apartment assuming Jason would return.

I am the worst— oh. Wait. I gave my key to Pamela. I'm sure she dealt with the Barking Menace.

How'd I get into the car?

"You're Cricket?"

I blink and find a man sitting in the front seat. Well, of course he's in the front seat. He's driving. I am in the back seat.

I'm in a car. I'm in a muthafracking car.

Stop it.

"Yeah. I'm Cricket. I'm…"

I trail off, looking away as the car pulls away from the curb.

"I believe she took a sleeping pill," Tom says from somewhere. "Clearly, it is having adverse effects."

There is a silent question asked but Unknown Man.

"The woman who sat next to her on the plane simply said she slept the entire flight. She was woken up by the flight attendant before landing."

When did Tom have this conversation with the old woman?

I am NEVER taking Ambien again. Next time I want to sleep on a plane, I'll just take some Benadryl.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom had Luke drop them off at his flat so he could feed Door in a non-public location. Tom hoped feeding her would cure Zombie Door Syndrome.

His wishes were answered. After some breakfast and several cups of tea, Door slowly became more aware of her surroundings and began to make a bit more sense each time she opened her mouth. After a shower she'd reverted to Fully Functioning Door.

"My life is so surreal," she muttered, clicking around on her laptop.

Tom watched her over the rim of his tea cup. She had been checking her email for the past fifteen minutes, frowning and shaking her head a lot. She pounded on the keys a few times till she began to hum a song Tom wasn't familiar with.

"What are you humming?"

Door glanced up from the laptop, meeting Tom's gaze for the first time in almost an hour. She appeared more exhausted, her eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles. Even after a shower her hair was still going in various different directions.

"A song from high school. I don't know who it's by, but it's called 'Running Away' I think. Well, the chorus is '_So, wh-h-h-h-y are you ru-u-u-u-nning a-a-a-a-away._' I've run away," Door announced.

Tom nodded, lifting his tea cup back up to his mouth and taking another sip.

"You and Pamela are on Tumblr! And without the purse!" Door wailed out of nowhere.

Door yanked out her phone and began texting.

Tom cleared his throat. Door looked up, appearing a bit dazed. Tom leveled her a serious look and asked, "What is your plan, Door?"

"Well, Ben's going to be back at some point on the second. Or he's got stuff to do on the second for _Star Trek_. I don't know your schedule because you're Tom Hiddleston and not my friend."

Tom felt rather hurt. "I'm not?"

"No, wait, I said that wrong. You're not Ben."

"No. I'm not Ben, seeing I go by Tom."

"Brain died. Come back later."

Tom sighed, deciding he'd let her be. "Well, you're free to remain here till you figure yourself out. I'm leaving next week, though."

"Oh. Vacation?"

"Yes, in a sense. Planned before I met Pamela, or I'd be in Texas."

"You deserve a vacation," Door said, looking away.

"Of course I do," Tom agreed.

"Where you going?"

"Budapest," Tom said, turning to put his tea cup in the sink. "I think I'll also go to Paris. It's been awhile since I've gone without having to work. I'm not sure yet."

Door nodded, shutting her laptop. She stared blankly ahead of her for a long time. Tom took another pull from his tea cup.

"I…okay. I didn't plan, but I'm Door," she said, still staring into space. "I've got money of my own, separate from…" Door waved her hand around the air before going on, "Plus, all the profit I've gotten from my recent burst of business. I think I can rent something somewhere…"

"You are more than welcome to stay here," Tom assured her. "You staying here whilst Ben's out of town won't be as strange as when Pamela stayed with Ben, shall it?"

"No. I should call Ben. I never did tell him when I'd get here," Door explained, pulling her mobile out again.

"I let him know."

"Oh. Thanks. I'm a mess."

Her head crashed onto the table, right on top of her laptop.

"You are. Might I inquire why?"

"I don't even know," Door moaned. "I want Ben."

He wasn't sure if she wanted Ben to be there instead of Tom or she _wanted_ Ben and that was the steam of her problems with Jason.

Tom chewed on his lower lip, studying the mass of ginger hair spread out over his kitchen island.

Pamela had mentioned the couple hadn't been speaking the passed week and had finally admitted to what had been bothering her at the ranch the previous weekend. While Pamela outright refused to actually put what she feared into words, Tom was sure Pamela was suspicious Jason and Kirsten were carrying on an affair. Going over what little Tom knew of the pair, he couldn't completely throw Pamela's theory out. He hadn't been looking for it, but now that he had put thought into what he remembered of that day, Tom could understand how Pamela might have drawn her conclusion— especially with the base of knowledge she was building upon.

"I could put you on a train to Cardiff," Tom offered, setting his tea cup in the sink behind him.

Door lifted her head up and stared at him. He watched her debate for a moment on going to Wales before shaking her head.

"No, I'd just be in the way. I need to be here, in London. If you really, honestly do not mind me crashing here, I'll stay. If you want me out, I'll leave."

Tom leveled her a look. "Would I kick you out? I'm hurt you'd even think that."

He threw a hand over his heart and looked as crushed as he could muster.

"Well, I don't want to take advantage of your nicesoscity," Door tried.

Tom smiled at the memories that word brought to mind.

"Also, you're Pamela's boyfriend."

"You're her friend and she technically sent me to you. Sound familiar?" Tom reminded Door. "Also, you only like me for my acting."

"True," Door agreed, completely serious. "Well, can you get me a map of the area so I can figure out where I am? I need to walk the streets and I don't want to get lost."

Tom quirked his eyebrow, but did as requested.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I love my job. I really do. I love everything in my life right now: the success, the acting opportunities, the people.

I adore everything.

Honestly.

I swear.

But, I am exhausted, hungry, and I think I've spoken of the same thing a hundred times and it has nothing to do with the movie I'm trying to promote.

Why does it matter if I'm dating someone? Why is everyone obsessed with my personal life? Every single person has asked me the same basic question: why are you single?

I loathe promotion.

I'm not sure anyone enjoys promotion— the parade of almost faceless reporters who file through and ask the same questions till they sound like cattle fodder…

I am quite tetchy. Luckily, I've had manners drilled into my being so I'm keeping my bad temper to myself.

Also being goofy with some of the reporters eases the tensions— especially when they ask me questions about my personal life.

I have no personal life. I'm a complete loser who sits at home when he's not working reading a book. And I would rather stay home than go out.

I tell people this and they think it's adorable. When did sitting at home being antisocial become adorable?

I believe I'm mostly cranky due to the fact I wrapped Sherlock at midnight, came straight to London and have only had maybe a few hours to myself before the early morning photo call and press conference.

"Are you ready Mr Cumberbatch?"

I look up at the person manning the door of the windowless room I've been trapped in the last two hours. I nod my agreement and straighten my jacket, sitting up straight once more. I put a polite smile on my face as I turn to greet the next reporter, who I realize no one has told me the name of…interesting. Usually the woman at the door tells me who I'm about to speak to…

My eyes go wide as Door enters the room. Her hair is tamed and she's dressed in a flower patterned dress in black and white, a white cardigan and heels.

Bugger.

Those shoes ought be illegal.

"This is so _Notting Hill_," Door announces, sitting down in the chair across from me.

I try not to watch her cross her legs.

"Only, in this day and age, they were confused on where my camera person was, or why I didn't want one. I said I was uber low tech and did my own work, so I guess you can thank my father for buying me this four hundred dollar digital camcorder and this funky tripod. I've used it quite a bit today. Not exactly what he had in mind when he got it for me. He wanted shots of Canada and the Alaska Highway."

She gets back to her feet and hooks the tripod object to a spare chair. Once the contraption is stable, she fiddles with the camera.

"You do realize you won't be on camera," I point out. "They usually do a few shots of the reporter, you know?"

"Eh."

She flaps her hand at me before hitting a button on the camera and sitting down.

"How are you even here?" I ask, not looking anywhere other than her face.

This is only the second time I've seen her in person. She's not sweaty, not embarrassed, nor does she have grass stains on her anywhere. She's pulled together and looks quite professional.

Other than those shoes.

"What do you mean? Here as in this press junket or here in London?"

"Press junket," I clear up, knowing full well how she came to find herself in London. "How'd you get in here?"

She's got the press credentials around her neck. She fiddles with them for a moment before grinning.

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

"Luke," she says as if I know who Luke is. "He set it up. I think mostly so I'll stop making fun of Tom."

Luke Windsor. Got it.

"Tom's publicist got you into the press junket for _Into Darkness_?"

Door shrugs. "I don't know. He showed up this morning, told me to dress up and grab a camera. I just grabbed the entire camera bag I packed and followed. And BAM! Here I am talking about McFly with Chris Pine!"

She straightens and beams at me.

She is having the time of her life. Her eyes are alive, dancing and she is radiating with energy.

She's honestly happy for the first time in a long while. I cannot help but match her smile.

God, she's gorgeous.

"None of them have got a clue who I am, so I guess there are still people in this world who don't want orange purses! And I don't have one today!" Door exclaims, hands fidgeting with one of her earrings.

I'd forgotten how she cannot remain still. Speaking through video chat always looses this aspect of her.

"An orange purse?"

"Exactly! Oh! Here," she says, leaning over and pulling a bag to her. She hefts it up and hands it to me. She goes back to fiddling, this time choosing the sliver cuff on her wrist. "I've been trying to show off the bag as a distraction. Only Alice Eve and Simon have bitten. Simon was all for setting up my own web site, but I think that was him just going along with my insanity. Or the fact I didn't want to talk about _Star Trek_. I got the feeling he was somewhat tired of the subject. I saw him right before you. He let me take a picture of him with the bag and told me I was free to post it, as long as I tagged him."

"What did you talk to Simon about if not the movie?" I wearily ask, studying the bag she's given me. It's a plain leather satchel in black. Nothing like the orange thing Pamela had given to Tom. I wonder if it'll even show up on film against my dark clothing?

"Oddly, Tom Hiddleston. That's how we got on the topic of purses," Door admits. "Simon's the only one who caught me out before my two minutes were up, so I told him how I wound up here. He agreed to be the next purse victim. I let him pick out which one he got to be burdened with."

"You have more than one bag?"

How'd I fail to realize she had a bunch of purses with her?

"Yeah, when Luke said grab a camera and I grabbed my camera bag, I failed to remember I used the camera bag to store a few smaller handbags. So, I have a few on me. Wanna be a tree of handbags?"

"A tree of handbags?" I echo faintly.

She shrugs, suddenly producing a bunch of smaller handbags from somewhere.

"No one's noticed I'm carrying around a bunch of handbags. Well, other than Alice Eve. She noticed right away and wanted to look at them. Saldana was all shop— quite professional. Quinto was a little weary of me since he was the first one I saw and I wasn't sure what I was doing yet. It was with him I unloaded the camera bag and started to carrying them all outside the bag. Just to see what would happen."

She shakes her head, before getting giddy again.

"Oh! Then I saw Christ Pine! He was mostly embarrassed as he didn't think anyone had seen _Just My Luck_. I've seen it a few times. I love McFly."

"You do realize this whole interview has been you talking while I'm sitting here holding your purse?" I ask, staring at the bag in my hands.

"Yeah. Oh, well," she shrugs, standing up. "Stand up. We'll make a tree out of you!"

I stand. She angles the camera before she drapes me in the various bags she has on her. I feel like an utter fool, but allow her to be herself— mostly due to the fact she's utterly enjoying herself. It's…catching.

My own bad mood is melting off, pooling at my feet. Thanks to Door, I might make it through the rest of this press junket with a smile on my face.

"You're doing _The_ _So Graham Norton Show_ tonight, right?"

"It is just _The Graham Norton Show_," I correct, as she tries to hang a bag from my nose. "My nose is not that big."

"No. Hold it in your teeth and I'll shoot a picture."

I open my mouth and she puts the strap between my teeth. I bite down, watching her as she spins around, grabbing a camera from somewhere. She snaps a photo, takes the purse out of my mouth and begins to gather her belongings together.

"So, _The So Graham Norton Show_?" I ask, handing her a few of the other purses she draped on my person.

"Showing my age. It was _The So Graham Norton Show _when I first started watching BBC America, back when they played actual BBC shows instead of _Next Generation_ and_ Kitchen Nightmares_ all the time. And why did he drop he 'so?' Whatever. Can I go with you?"

"To the show?"

"Yeah? Luke only pulled strings to get me into this, which I think was to get me out of the flat and away from Tom, though I don't know why he had to do that as I've been entertaining myself since I got here," Door babbles, somehow getting all the purses draped over her arm and the larger bag covering them so she doesn't look like a bag lady.

"Yes, of course," I quickly agree as the door opens.

I'm still standing, which the person at the door thinks is a little odd.

"Miss?" the person asks, seemingly realizing she doesn't know Door's name. Her eyes go quickly to the badges around Door's neck and she relaxes a little.

"Later, Cumberbatch," Door salutes me and exits the room.

Bewildered, I wave back.

* * *

Karon is shuffling me along to a car after walking the red carpet for the premiere to get me to the studio to film _Graham Norton_ when Chris slides up next to me.

"So, do you know the strangest thing that happened today?" Chris asks, arching an eyebrow as he looks at me.

"No," I hedge as we reach the line of cars waiting.

Chris smiles, opening up the door for me. "I met your friend Cricket today. She announced who she was, set up a camera, and began to talk about a movie I made a long, long time ago."

I smile, nodding. I get into the car and Chris follows me, much to Karon's annoyance. She gets into the front seat. I'm not sure where Chris's publicist (or who ever he has with him) went.

"Turns out she loves McFly. Found out about them when she was living in London way back in 2004," Chris goes on. He pauses for a moment, glancing out the window. "I looked her up after she left."

"I take it you found Tom burdened with a glorious purse?"

Chris laughs, turning back to me, his eyes sparkling. "I did. What was she doing there today?"

"I believe it was Tom Hiddleston's publicist's idea of a prank," I offer. "Or Tom's. I was as baffled as you when she turned up. She attempted to explain it to me, as I guess she got to me late in her…day, but I am still unsure what the purpose was other than to get her…to stop making Tom her target."

Chris shakes his head. Part of me expects him to be pissed that Cricket took up two minutes of his time when he ought to have been working, but all he does is laugh.

"God, I thought it was so crazy. I figured it was something the two of you were trying to pull over on the rest of the cast, but after I talked to some of them, none of them thought it was strange. I guess it was only me she started talking about a movie I made eons ago."

"You speak to Simon?"

"No. What'd she do with him?"

I shrug. "She mentioned she tried to distract people with her purses, but only Alice and Simon noticed. Simon said he wanted to be burdened with a glorious purse."

"Simon's sort of a goofball," Chris offered as the car slowed down. "Very _Notting Hill_ someone said. So, Cricket?"

"We're friends. She's in London for a few days and I…well, I haven't been," I explain. "She's been staying with Hiddleston."

"I gathered that," Chris easily says, opening the door and getting out of the now stopped car. The noise hits me full force as the fans gathered outside the stage doors explode as Chris gets out of the car with a wave and smile.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to be on the show?"

"Bless you, but I've got an appointment later I cannot miss. I'm just dropping her off."

"Dumping me off."

"I'm not simply dumping you off, darling."

I walk into the green room to find Graham Norton standing in front of Tom Hiddleston and Door, who is staring at Tom in an annoyed manner.

"BEN!"

Tom throws his arms out and moves across the room, giving me a huge, bone crushing hug before backing up to hold me at arm's length.

"You're much to thin, old sport!"

Tom claps me on the back and spots Chris entering behind me.

"Another Chris!" Tom booms, letting me go fully to attack Chris.

Chris merely gets his arm almost jerked out of his socket by over exuberant hand shaking.

"Tom Hiddleston," Tom announces letting go of Chris.

"Chris Pine," Chris supplies, looking mildly bemused.

"Lovely to meet you! I must dash. Take care of Door, Ben."

Tom claps me on the back and escapes before anything else can happen. How'd he get in here without anyone noticing?

"Door?" the room asks.

"I'm Door!" Door says, waving. "I just wanted to see the show and for some reason Tom seemed to think he had to walk me in here instead of telling me how one goes about seeing this thing in person."

She shrugs, looking over at Graham for a moment then back at me.

"She's a friend of yours?" Graham asks, turning around to face me. "Lovely! We're out of seats, but you can sit backstage if you're quiet."

"I'm always quiet," Door assures.

"I thought your name was Cricket," Chris says, stepping around me. He peers at Door, who is still dressed in the same outfit she was wearing this morning, only now she'd sporting what appears to be Tom's leather jacket over the top.

Those heels still ought be illegal.

"I have many names," Door says, smiling. She removes the leather jacket.

At some point she lost the sweater.

No wonder she was cold. Her dress is strapless and there is a lot of skin now showing.

"Cricket is, well, I guess the professional name I go by," she finishes, folding Tom's jacket over her arm and looking up at Chris with a smile.

I sit down on a couch and try to wrap around…well, everything.

It's not working.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

"You sure that was a good idea?"

"Yes. She needed to get out of her own head for a day," Tom reasoned, fiddling with the power cord of his laptop.

"So, you and Luke sent her off to a press junket armed with a camera and a few purses?"

"We didn't know she was armed with anything other than a camera, if I'm honest," Tom admitted, glancing up at the screen. "And I wholeheartedly didn't think she'd get as far as she did. I was sure someone would out her and she'd end up getting kicked out. I didn't know she's bumble around like Hugh Grant and manage to see everyone."

"She saw every single one of them! She actually interviewed a few of them!" Pamela exclaimed, looking a combination of confused and amazed.

"I know, darling. I dropped her off at _Graham Norton_."

"What?"

Tom quelled his laughter. "Ben's filming an interview for the show to air tonight. _The Graham Norton Show_ is a little like your late night talk shows."

Pamela nodded.

"I wasn't sure how to get Door backstage other than personally seeing here there. They let me in. I left her with Ben. And another Chris."

Pamela groaned and Tom chuckled. It was quite easy to charm his way into places he ought not to be sometimes.

"Oh god," Pamela moaned, putting her face in her hands.

Tom cleared his throat after the pair had been silent for a moment. "So, uh, have you seen, er, Jason?"

Pamela lifted her head from her hands, sighed and looked off to the right. Tom knew that was where the sliding glass door was located leading out to her tiny balcony with a view of the motorway and parking lot.

"Yes," she said finally. "I saw him the today. He behaved as if nothing was wrong."

"He didn't ask after Door?"

Pamela shook her head. "No. And…I was out in the parking lot later, getting ready to leave when I saw Jason getting into a car that wasn't his. At first I assumed it was Dan or someone from his class, but…"

Pamela pressed her lips together and glared at Tom.

"You're not glaring at me, are you, darling? I had nothing to do with the car."

"Oh, I know. I'm just…I think…"

"Spit it out."

"I think it was Kirsten."

"Kirsten? Dan's step-sister? How would she get on a military base?"

"I…Dan…uh…she…Jason…I don't know." Pamela groaned and put her head in her hands. "I think something is going on between Kirsten and Jason, so I'm seeing things everywhere." She let out an annoyed noise. "I've got no proof other than my gut feeling I've had since the first time I met Kirsten at Jason's graduation from pilot training."

"I know, darling," Tom said, feeling helpless.

"No one believes me, but something…happened," Pamela insisted, lifting her head up. "And might still be happening. I know Door and Jason don't seem like a good fit…as she's so…strange and he's so utterly normal and they have nothing in common, but…Jason doesn't seem like the sort to cheat."

Tom didn't know Jason well enough to agree with that statement. He swallowed thickly and offered, "Sometimes things break."

Pamela stared at him, incomprehension in her eyes.

"Oh, darling, I forgot you don't already know all the facets of my life," Tom sighed, smiling fondly at the woman on his computer screen. "I doubt Door cared to rattle it off to you at any point, but my parents are divorced. Since I was a teenager."

"Oh. I'm, uh, sorry," Pamela tried. "I…well, er, I…"

"It was a long time ago and we've all healed," Tom quickly explained. "It was quite distressing at the time, but I found my own way of dealing."

Pamela nodded, though Tom knew she had no clue his method of dealing had become his profession.

"I don't remember when my parents split."

Tom blinked, shock at her statement clear upon his face. She gave him a small half smile.

They really had along way to go to really get to know one another.

"They get along great, but for as long as I remember, they've never been together. I never found it all that strange till I was maybe six or seven and it suddenly occurred to me my mother had a different last name from me. I'm dense, even with my own family."

"I feel so foolish. We've spent all this time speaking, yet I seem to know so little of your family, except you keep in touch," Tom laughed, a little uncomfortable.

Pamela smiled at him, a breathtaking smile that told him it was perfectly fine.

"I don't find it bizarre or strange, so I don't bring it up," Pamela allowed. "I know you've got two sisters, you are quite close and I even met Emma. Sarah lives in India, right?"

"Yes," Tom said, pleased she'd remembered their names. "You've got…"

"I've got a, well, a little brother," Pamela said. "He's adopted. My mom adopted him when I was about eight and the first thing I told her when she introduced us what he didn't look like me."

Pamela laughed. Tom grinned.

"He's from India," Pamela supplied when she'd ceased laughing at the memory.

"I would think he would look vastly different," Tom allowed.

Pamela nodded.

They spent the rest of the evening chat exchanging family antidotes and photos to go along with the tales. As it neared almost three in the morning, Pamela finally realized the time on Tom's end.

"Thomas! Why didn't you tell me what time it was?"

"I don't need to be up early," Tom reminded her. "I'd rather speak to you than sleep."

"Thomas."

"I know, I know, but I feel like hearing these kinds of stories, darling. I can't wait to meet your family," Tom said, staring at the photo she'd sent him of her brother, Simon, and her hiking somewhere in the wilderness of Colorado. The scenery was breathtaking, as well as the two people in the photo. While it was clear they weren't related by blood, the bond they shared as brother and sister was clear in their body language in the photo.

"Yeah. I can't wait either," Pamela admitted. "I guess Door stayed with Benedict tonight?"

"I had her belongings messengered over to his flat when I got home," Tom explained, cracking his neck.

He was stiff from sitting in the chair for three hours.

"Do you have any idea when she's coming home?"

"No. She's not spoken of why she is really here to me," Tom admitted. "Part of the reason I pushed her off on Ben today even though I knew he was busy, and he'll likely strangle me later, was because she will speak to him on personal matters. Remember, he's her friend."

"She your friend, too."

"I know, sweetheart, but I'm not her friend like Ben's her friend. She came here to see Ben, she came here because Ben's here. I'm a byproduct."

"That sounds wrong."

Tom chuckled. "I know. I'm not mad, or upset. I know on some level Door and I are friends, but…it's different."

"I know what you mean. Door is quick the make friends," Pamela said. "She lets almost anyone in and is…well, quite friendly for a self proclaimed antisocial hermit."

Tom nodded.

"I think…I'm going out on a limb, as I am an idiot when it comes to personal relationships, but I think the reason Benedict chased her down was because he felt that intense draw to her. I felt it when I first met her. I've noticed that about her. She draws people to her…well, when she leaves her apartment."

Tom chuckled. "I did like her rather quickly, but I doubt we'll ever be…well, very good friends like she seems to be with Ben."

Pamela nodded. "Yeah. She and Ben were kind of instant best friends. Like me and her."

"Yes, exactly."

"Did you feel…uh, and instant connection to me?" Pamela asked, looking determinedly down at the desktop on her end of the connection.

Tom thought for a moment before saying, "Yes, darling. There was something about you."

Tom smiled at the memory as Pamela turned her head back towards the computer screen.

"I liked you from the moment I first found you in Ben's kitchen. By the time I left that first morning, I was determined to get to know you further and, well, by the evening I was…"

"I know," Pamela quickly said before Tom could make her turn more red than she already was.

"Connections are made in mysterious ways, Pamela," Tom said quietly.

And broken equally was left unsaid.

"Is it strange that I am under to foolish belief we won't break?" Pamela asked, sounding timid and small.

Tom contemplated her question. He had had serious relationships in the past. They had clearly not worked, even if he'd loved a few of the girls. Some were messy breakups, some they remained on friendly terms right away. Tom loved being in love, loved being loved in return. And yet, he always had this strange sinking feeling in the beginning it wouldn't last. He'd always assumed it was a manifestation stemming from his parent's relationship failing to work. Now, with thirty-two years of experience at living and loving, he was face with something new and baffling.

Pamela Fitch.

"No. Not at all," Tom allowed. "I feel the same thing."

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 6 September 2013_


	12. Of Sheep Blankets and Hester

**_Of Sheep Blankets and Hester_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I've never been to Wales but I knew this guy who studied abroad here. Mostly because his girlfriend was English and Wales was the closest program he could find…or something. But, he said it rained a lot. It was pretty, but depressing. Because it rained a lot.

Having gone to Wales the year before I went to London, he warned me about the rain and sounded so bitter I thought it'd be worse than that time my family went on vacation to Vancouver and it rained the entire time we were there.

It's sunny.

I am sitting on a curb on a Cardiff street dressed to look like somewhere in London and it's sunny. The sky is a wonderful shade of blue and filled with warm, sunny sunshine.

I'm a wordsmith. I need another word for sunny.

"So, you're Cricket. I'm Mark."

I look up and find a casually dressed Mark Gatiss with a red sweatshirt tied around his waist and huge earphones around his neck.

"Ohmygod. It's you!"

Mark Gatiss quirks his eyebrows skyward. I catapult myself to my feet. I'm not sure if I ought to hug this man, simply shake his hand or punch him because it's all his fault my life exploded in my face in a confusing blur of cotton and leather. (Well, it's also a combination of my own fault, Tom's and Pamela's but whatever.)

"It is me," he agrees and solves the problem for me by extending his hand.

No hugging or punching. Got it.

"I've been quite anxious to meet the woman who made penguins fall out of Sherlock's head."

Laughter bubbles out of me as I take his hand and shake it. I'm smiling like an idiot, but I don't truly care any longer.

It's Mark Gatiss! He tweeted at me! Tom Hiddleston hasn't even tweeted at me, but Mark Gatiss has!

OMG!

I no longer want to punch him, thank god, but now I kinda wanna hug him.

"It's sunny," I dumbly state for some unknown reason as I drop his hand.

Mark Gatiss cocks his head to the side and appears amused. "True. We lucked out on the weather. How are you enjoying the set? Is it everything you dreamed of?"

"There's a lot of standing around, but I knew that was going to happen," I say, trying not to rock back and forth on my feet. I'd like to appear like a normal person.

Oh, what the frack. I can't be normal. I'm the opposite of normal.

"Your friend told you? Pamela, correct?"

"Yeah, that's her name. She's dating Tom Hiddleston now. This cannot be my life. I have to be dreaming. You're Mark Gatiss!" I cry, now bouncing up and down in front of him.

He gives me an amused smile. "True. I'm glad she got over her…stage fright in front of Tom, as adorable as it was."

He gives me that weird creepy Mycroft smile and I about faint.

"I forgot him at the airport when he came to visit her. I left him there for two hours," I babble. "Then my barkapotmous dog barked at him constantly for like five hours."

Mark chuckles. "Yes, I read about that on your blog. I found it quite funny. You've got a talent for finding the jocosity in the everyday."

I flush. "I do?"

"Of course you do. If you'd fail to impress me, I wouldn't have turned your life upside down," he offers, a smirk on his lips. "How is the handbag business?"

"Closed for the moment while I'm here," I admit. "But, between your boost and Tom carrying that horrid orange bag…I can't exactly complain about having no sales."

I chuckle a bit uneasily, remembering what exactly awaits me back home.

"I've always wanted to visit a working set," I say suddenly to change the subject. "I've always been totally fascinated with show business. There's no business like show business."

"No business I know," Mark finishes, smirk melting into an actual grin.

"Are you two about to break into song? If so, wait till I get my mobile."

"OMG! It's Benedict Cumberbatch!" I shirk, clapping my hands together, jumping up and down like a total goofball.

"Where?" Ben asks, looking around.

Mark shakes his head.

"Can I have my script, please, ma'am?" Ben asks, holding out his hands and making some big eyes at me. He looks an adorable little kids suddenly, not the thirty-six year old adult he is (physically, sometimes he acts like the kid he looks like, which is okay by me as it's fun).

I've become his personal PA for some reason. Instead of wandering the streets trying to figure out my life, I've been standing around the set for the past few days holding Ben's things. I'm sure they hired someone to do this job, yet that someone is mysteriously absent.

I open the large black Cricket Heidi satchel I've slung over my shoulder and hand Ben his script, then pull out a pair of sunglasses. Ben takes the script, tucks it under his arm, and grabs the shades. He's put them on his face before I realize he's just put mine on.

Oops.

Ben sits down on the curb and gazes through the sunglasses with a confused look on his face. He looks at me and frowns.

"You stole my sunglasses."

"Of course I did. Yours cost at least two hundred dollars and mine were five bucks from Old Navy," I tell him happily.

"Mine are much too large for you."

"And yet mine fit you. Go figure?"

Gatiss says something about talking to someone who is likely important and leaves Ben to go over the script. I watch the man who tortures me almost as much as Steven Moffat with his plots, writing and crazy ideas walk away before sinking back down on the curb next to Ben.

"What are you filming in there?"

"Spoilers," he says without looking up. "Pencil, please?"

I hand him a pencil.

"Don't you have an assistant on this set?"

Ben makes some sort of noise in his throat, totally channeling the outside world out to write down whatever notes he needs written down for whatever he'd doing. I plunk my chin into the palm of my hand and stare at the madness around me.

It is seriously corybantic around here— just as I always imagined a set would be for a show like _Sherlock_. I kinda love it here.

"Ben!" someone calls.

Ben's head snaps up.

"Two minutes."

Ben nods, quickly finishing up his notations before he slams the script shut and hands it back to me. He removes my sunglasses and hands those to me as well. There is a thick layer of stage makeup on the frame wherever it touched Ben's face. I clean it off with fingers before shoving the cheap sunnies into my bag. Ben gracefully stands and heads off. I continue to sit on the curb, ignored by the entire crew.

I don't honestly mind being ignored.

I don't mind sitting out here in the nicely warm sunshine.

Seriously.

Would I rather be sitting in a nice cafe lost inside my own head while nursing a cup of tea? Sure. But, I did that for a whole week in London while Ben was here filming in Cardiff and now it seems like everyone around me excepts me to actually do something to earn my keep. Since I crashed the press junket, I haven't been left to my own devices. I've become Ben's shadow and while that's totally cool, being Ben's shadow is exhausting.

I'm not sure why Ben's not keeling over dead. More than likely because he loves what he's doing.

I've been utterly fascinated by the whole world of entertainment since I was eight and read some book about a child star whose career ended because she was suddenly no longer "cute." I proceeded to consume any books about Hollywood the library had to offer. Some were kind of…well, stupid and painted the whole world in shades of gold and silver. Some were brutal and painted the whole world in shades of grey and red. But, I still loved the world.

And here I am. I'm sitting on the side of the road on the show business side of the barrier. The normal folk are all on the other side, excited and snapping photos a mile a minute. I study them behind Ben's Wayfayer Ray-Bans, watching as someone calls for quiet on the set. An unnatural hush falls over the entire street, even though they're filming inside a pub and likely would need ambient noise from the street. Or not. I watch the extras walk pass the windows of the pub, aiming to look random and unnoticeable while they film the scene inside. I know it's not random or natural, as they've walked the same paths with each take.

As the guy in the white shirts comes to a stop just out of the shot for the millionth time, it hits me like a ton of bricks.

1. I'm wearing Ray-Bans that belong to Benedict Cumberbatch that he handed me to hold and I stole.

2. I have a script for season three of _Sherlock_ in my purse. Technically, I could take it out and read it. I could go off and tell the whole world what happens as I've never signed a contract or anything that prevents me from spreading spoilers all over the world.

(I'm not going to. I like being surprised. It's part of the reason why I almost hate the internet. Things always get ruined.)

3. I've got Benedict Cumberbatch's cell phone. (He's got an iPhone just like me, only his is an iPhone 4 and not a 5 like mine.)

I could go through his phone.

Well, if I can figure out his passcode. He already figured out mine. I'm not sure how, as even Jason never figured it out and Jason should _know_ me well enough to know why I'd choose that code.

He always has to ask if he wants into my phone.

Ben never asked me the code. He took the phone, punched the code in, and tisked me.

I stare across the street blankly.

I'm friends with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Also, I'm friends with Tom Hiddleston.

I stayed at his flat for almost a whole week.

I've met the entire cast of _Star Trek: Into Darkness._

And I've just met Mark Gatiss.

I think my mind just exploded.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Karon has emailed me the full schedule for my upcoming trip to New York. My time has been scheduled down to the minute whilst I'm in New York. It's almost comical when I stare at what Karon has sent me, as is it humanly possible to stick to that sort of schedule after a flight from London?

"URG! Did my clothes grow?"

I'm not sure why, but Door exploded clothing all over my room instead of her own. I'm not even sure how she managed to get all of it into my room.

Door has yet to talk to me about anything that happened before her arrival in London. She admitted to Tom she ran away, but has said nothing to me on the topic. Though, now that I think about it, I've managed to keep us both so damn busy, we haven't talked about anything. I believe she's spent more time talking to the lady who does my hair on set than me.

"Door?"

No response.

"Door," I try again to get her attention. She's too busy trying to cram a boot into her suitcase to pay me any attention. "Dorothea."

Her head snaps up.

"I believe we need to talk?"

"Talk?"

"Yes, about why you're here."

"Your room is bigger than mine."

"No, here as in the United Kingdom. Aren't you supposed to be moving to Del Rio?"

She looks away and goes back to trying to pack her bag. The boot refuses to go where she wants it, so she throws it over her shoulder. She picks up a pink blanket, turning it over till she finds a corner that has something stitched on it. Her face turns contemplative.

"I had a boyfriend when I lived in London," she says quietly, still gazing at the blanket. "I…I'd never fallen in love for real before I met him."

I sit down, feeling this is going to be a long, slightly painful story.

"He was from New Zealand, an art student studying at Goldsmith's. He was doing a semester abroad, not a full year as I was, but…" Door trails off, still stroking the stitching in the corner of the blanket. "I'd just gotten out of a bad relationship and was like, 'Let's try a fling! I'm not Rory Gilmore!' So, we hung out, started…well, we met, we kissed, we slept together, we fell in love, we parted ways."

She chuckles, draping the blanket across her lap. Door studies the thing as if it holds answers to questions she's not asked. She flattens it out, letting the edge she'd kept hidden show. There was a blue and white sheep embroidered in the corner.

It is obviously a baby blanket.

Something in my heart sinks.

"I gave him a blanket for Christmas because I didn't know what to get him, but he said he liked meaningful gifts," Door says softly, looking off to the right. "So, I gave him the blanket I used to sleep with, as I've always needed something, anything really, wrapped around my finger."

This was not where I thought this story was heading.

She wraps a bit of the blanket around her finger and holds it up for me to see. She cocks her head to the side, her hair cascading over her shoulder.

"I like things that are soft and compact. While I was in London, I had this napkin sized blanket thing my mom had given me for Christmas after she'd thrown out my actual baby blanket— which wasn't a blanket but mostly a series of knots that was formerly a blanket. It was so fragile, I'd left it behind when I'd gone off to start my sophomore year of college. Numerous times throughout my teenage life, I'd tried to sleep without aid of the baby blanket and always failed." She snorts. "One time my dad had to FedEx it to me when I was visiting my grandma downstate. Anyways, I think I made it about two weeks before the lack of sleep got to me and I emailed my mom to mail it to me and she told me she'd chucked it."

"She did?" I ask, shocked. Mums were the sentimental ones, saving things like that. I know my Mum had saved things like that, hoarded away for the grandkids she fails to have.

"Yeah. My mom likes to throw things out," Door snorts. "Anyways, that Christmas she gave me a this yellow, fleece handkerchief thing. It was lined with satin and had a loop and everything. Later she told me, she realized why I needed an extra blanket to sleep with, hence why she got the blanket with a loop."

"Well, that was kind of her."

Door chortles, shaking her head. More hair falls forward, hiding her face from me. I cast my eyes down to her lap and watch her hands fiddle with the blanket.

"So, I had this micro-sized blanket. I didn't like it, but I slept with it because I needed it."

She knots her fingers in the soft pink blanket, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Then I met _him_," Door quietly says. "I found I didn't need the square yellow fleece to fall asleep after a bit, as I had him to wrap my finger around."

She interlocks her fingers together, as if to illustrate to me they held hands while sleeping. My stomach takes a holiday and something coils within my being I am not going to analyze.

"I bought this blanket because I was freezing," Door says, looking at the pink thing in her lap. She holds it up, hiding her face. I study it as she continues to talking. "The room I lived in was cold because I had to keep the window open to prevent it from getting too hot after they turned the heater on. I didn't want to spend a lot and this thing was soft. And it had a sheep on it, which at the time was important for some reason."

The blanket has clearly been used well in the time she's had it. It's an odd shaped blanket, rectangular and not square and the color on it is quite shabby. Back in its early life, I would hazard it was a vivid shade of light pink.

"Anyways, I never used it except to keep me warm around the room till he left and went back to New Zealand," Door quietly admits, lowering the blanket back to her lap. "Since then, I've slept every night with this thing."

She wads the blanket up in her lap, clutching it as a lifeline.

"Jason won't hold my hand," Door says. "I mean, he will hold it if I make him, but he doesn't hold me at night when we sleep. It gets too hot. We've never…well, we don't cuddle. It's just…weird. So, I've always needed this blanket. Jason occasionally mocks me because I drag it around, hence the dirtiness…"

She looks troubled and it's taking everything in me not to rush across the room and crush her to me.

"I love Jason differently," Door quietly says, staring at the floor with a blank look of mild shock on her face. "I've always known this. It wasn't…I knew it would be different, but there was always something I missed with Jason. I always told myself I was being stupid, trying to compare the two very different people. And it wasn't fair to Jason to compare him to Chris."

She lets out a deep breath.

Chris. Of course his name was Chris. Simple, common and generic.

"I was the one who wanted to get married, I was the one who pushed us through the motions, ignored that nagging voice in my head that kept telling me something was off," Door says, then bites her lower lip. "One of my friends in high school said that if you could sit in silence with a guy and be comfortable, he was right for you."

Door shakes her head, wadding the blanket up in her lap till it is a tight, compact ball.

"I always feel the need to fill the silence with Jason— I always have. Sometimes I start to babble, sometimes I don't say anything and just sit there uncomfortably. I thought…I don't know what I thought. I'm not making any sense. I know I loved Jason, I know there will be a little bit of me that always will, but…I'm hurt, I'm mad and I honestly don't care if I see him again.

"I never understood why people were so upset when their husbands left on trips or deployments. I was fine on my own. Mostly. I might have starved a few times, but for the most part I can be alone. I'd rather be alone sometimes."

She's quiet for a moment, wearing a hard expression on her face.

"The problem with Jason and I is that we do work. We can operate flawlessly together. We're great roommates who occasionally have okay sex," Door announces.

For the first time since she began speaking, I'm glad she's not looking at me.

"I know it's wrong now. It took me five years, but…I'm Hester. Oh my fracking god, I'm fracking Hester!"

Door pulls at her hair and makes eye contact with me for the first time since she began talking. She looks wild, crazed and alive. Oh, god, does she look alive. It's like she's just had the Eureka moment she's been looking for since she got here.

"I'm Hester…Oh, god, I'm Hester, Jason is the old dude and…well, I don't have a Freddie. So, I guess it's not…but, no. I am like Hester, only without a Freddie."

I've no idea what the hell she's talking about. The only Hester I can think of is from _A Scarlett Letter_ and there was no Freddie in that story if my memory is correct. Wait a second…

"Are you talking about that movie Tom made with Rachel Weisz?" I inquire, staring at her in confusion.

"Of course I am! What Hester did you think I was comparing myself to?" Door says, looking at me like I'm batty.

She pushes herself to her feet and shoves the pink blanket into the case on the floor. Unlike the boot, it stays.

"Oh god, it makes sense. Passion! Jason and I lack passion!" Door shouts at me, yanking at her hair again. "I mean, it's not perfect comparison, but…oh."

Her whole face falls, she pales and looks as if the life was just sucked out of her by a Wraith.

"What? Door, what's wrong?" I ask, slowly getting to my feet.

"Jason cheated on me with Kirsten," Door says, looking like she swallowed a lemon. "Oh god, Pamela was right. I'm a total moron. What the frack is wrong with me?"

Door storms out of my room, slamming the door behind her. I follow, only to see her vanish around the corner heading for her own room. I hurry down the hallway after her, catching up with her before she gets to her own room. I grab her arm, turning her to face me.

"Why do you think Kirsten and Jason are having an affair?"

"I don't know. I'm not even sure if that's the case, but it makes sense. They both vanish off together all the time, Jason always wants to visit Dan, and…and…Pamela pointed it out like four years ago when she finally met Kirsten. We made a lot of trips to San Antonio to visit Dan and his family, even sometimes when Dan wasn't there. Jason claimed it was because he liked it and hated Del Rio, but seriously? And…he was always fast to hop on trips that would dump him in the South, places that were within easy reach of…oh god, I am an utter moron."

She crumples. I grab her before she hits the ground, but her momentum makes us both crash to the floor.

"Shouldn't you speak to Jason about this instead of simply jumping to conclusions?"

Door looks up at me with lost eyes. She gives a painful laugh and sings softly, "_And it scares the hell out of me that the end is all I can see._"

Door looks at the ground, but does not push me away. We stay in our awkward position on the floor of the hotel for five minutes before she breaks and starts to cry in my arms.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I left confused.

I left wishing to hide, run away and forget.

I left wishing for things to magically fix themselves while I was tramping through the streets of London, the city I where I first fell in love.

I came back broken.

I came back knowing I was done.

I returned to reality and it sucked.

My father warned me this might happen to me if I didn't marry Jason and simply followed him around while he learned to fly planes.

So, I married him and it still happened.

I have no job. I have no income. I have no home. I have a lot of junk but it's in San Antonio and Del Rio, Texas.

I am in Chicago (well, really Villa Park) and I don't know what to do. There are in fact, some things your mother cannot fix and tragically a broken marriage is one of them. I almost wish I was heart broken, as I know that is easily fixed in time.

Or I thought it was…did I ever mend my broken heart after Chris? (Gosh, there are a lot of people named Chris in the world.)

I'm not broken hearted. I'm…blank. A white, blank page of nothingness. People mistake it for being broken hearted because my husband is having an affair with a blonde bombshell and didn't even have the guts to tell me.

Jason showed up at Pamela's hotel room with the belongings I'd left behind at the apartment and the dog. He had Kirsten with him and Pamela took one look at her smug face and kind of pulled a Mount Vesuvius on the pair. Pamela told me Jason was embarrassed, but at the same time he stated I'd understand.

I do.

It's horrible.

Jason fell in love with someone who wasn't me.

It happens. They make movies, TV shows and write books about this kind of thing.

It happens, people.

And, guess what? It happened to me.

I think I'm in shock.

At least I've got a blanket. It might be pink and have a sheep in one corner, but it's still a blanket. And I'm wrapped in it because I'm in shock.

I should have gone to New York with Ben. Why didn't I? I could have. I didn't have to come back home to my parents— where I did not cry and fall apart in my mom's arms. No, I did that in Ben's arms on the floor of a hotel in Cardiff. (Of course, where else would I fall apart? I had to pick a public place and a celebrity! Duh!)

I ought to figure out what I'm doing. I have to…start over.

Oh, god. I have to find a real freaking job.

Or…I've got my mom now. I'm in Chicago. All I gotta do is talk my brother into driving with me down to get my stuff and Basil the Furry Menace and I can start my purse business back up with the aid of my mother. I'm still getting requests and orders. And my dad is web savvy…

I drop the blanket. I've got work to do.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

It's a few days since Door left. She opted to go straight to Chicago rather than come with me to New York. I figured it was for the best, but after I arrived in New York, I got a call from Tom who told me an irate Pamela had phoned him to inform him her fears had been correct.

This made me mad, worried, concerned, and a bit pleased, which made me somewhat want to punch myself in the nose.

I slog through my commitments, using jet lag as an excuse when I come across as batty. I don't want to fly back to London tonight, but I've got filming to do for _Sherlock_ and we're on a tight schedule. So, back across the pond I go.

"Uh, Benedict?"

I snap my head up, scratching behind my ear. I give the man interviewing me, the guy from MTV I actually like, a sheepish smile. He looks behind him and makes a motion with his hand to cut the camera. He looks back at me once the camera is shut off.

"Jet lag," I remind him, chuckling.

I'm an actor. I can do this.

The guy levels me a look and clearly I cannot act like nothing is wrong.

"I think it's something more than jet lag," he says. He studies me a moment longer before he says, "Whatever it is, don't let it get away."

And he thanks me for my time and the camera behind him turns back on. I head to the next reporter on the red carpet Karon wishes I speak to.

* * *

A brilliant idea occurs to me after I've been on the plane for two hours. The airplane has internet, so I log on and pray to the higher powers Door is on Skype.

She is.

**CricketHeidi: Hey, aren't you supposed to be on a plane?**

**747t38b2C112: Yes. I am on a plane.**

**CricketHeidi: I'm on a muthafracking plane!**

I grin. She's gotten her sense of humor back. Last time I managed to speak with her, she sounded like a zombie.

**CricketHeidi: I am on a mission. I've spoken to my parents and since I'm currently pathetic to them, they've agreed to aid me in almost anything except a start up loan. **

**747t38b2C112: Start up loan?**

**CricketHeidi: Seriously going into business for myself. **

Ah, seems we're on the same wavelength.

**CricketHeidi: I'm kind of leery about getting a loan, but my dad's like going all businessy on my butt and wants me to get a business model together and figure out pricing figures and all this other stuff I've pretty much ignored since I opened Cricket Heidi four years ago. So, I'm doing that, but I have this sinking feeling no banks going to loan me any money. **

**747t38b2C112: Do you have good credit?**

I don't want her to get an actual loan, because that would defeat what I want to do to help her out. I'm glad she's leery.

**CricketHeidi: Of course I do. But, I'm not exactly stellar here. I've got no money to my own name really. And I'm an idiot.**

**747t38b2C112: No, you're not.**

**CricketHeidi: Yeah, I kind of am. I don't know anything about business running, but I freak out each time I think about getting a real job and being an office drone. So, for now I'm setting up a website. **

**747t38b2C112: How can I help?**

The time stretches out before she replies.

**CricketHeidi: I don't know. **

**747t38b2C112: I could give you a start up loan.**

**CricketHeidi: What? No.**

**747t38b2C112: Yes, I could. It'd be a good investment. You've got talent— even if you like overly bright colors and are famous for an ugly, brilliantly orange tote bag.**

**CricketHeidi: I can't ask you for money.**

**747t38b2C112: You didn't. I offered.**

**CricketHeidi: No. You don't lend friends money. **

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair.

**747t38b2C112: Fine. I'll be your business partner. You'll have to rename your label. **

I'm not serious about the last thing, but if it'll get her to let me help her…maybe I ought to have phoned her for this conversation?

**CricketHeidi: Benedict Cumberbatch, what are you talking about?**

**747t38b2C112: Celebrities do it all the time. They have their own fashion lines, creates stinky perfumes, put their names on shoes. I'm going to put my name on a bag.**

**CricketHeidi: I'd have to pay you.**

**747t38b2C112: No. We'll do this together. Joint venture.**

I can picture the look she's giving me and I wait for her to continue to argue with me. Instead my phone rings.

"Shite," I mutter trying to silence the phone before I get accused of leaving my mobile on. She's calling me through Skype, so it's not an actual phone call. I answer it in a whisper as to not awake my fellow passengers who are sleeping. "Hello?"

"What are you suggesting, Benedict?" she asks. "Why are you doing this? Because you feel sorry for me?"

"No. As I stated, it'd be a good investment. Granted, we'll have to pay Tom for his involvement if you wish to use him again for the ads," I try to joke. She doesn't laugh, so I go on. "Door, I think we ought to go this together."

"Why?"

"I believe in you and wish to support you," I offer. "And this is your passion, your dream."

She snorts.

"Well, you're good at it and you've got the talent to make it work. If you're remaining in Chicago, then you can have your mum help you with the orders or hire someone— if you let me invest in your business with you."

It feels so bizarre to be having this conversation with her while I'm speeding towards London and she's back at her parent's house in Villa Park, Illinois.

"We'd be partners?" she finally asks.

"Yes."

"And I'd have to relaunch my label with a new name?"

"Yes, well, if you want, you don't have to," I amend.

"Cricket and Ben. Benedict and Cricket. Cricket Heidi and Ben. No, that totally sucks."

She mutters a few more name suggestions, likely writing them down before crossing them out.

"How about Benedict and Door?" I throw out there.

She's silent for a long beat. "But, I'm known as Cricket Heidi. I've built a presence as that name."

"You can remain Cricket. The Benedict and Door label will be designed by Cricket Heidi."

"Oh, get rid of Cricket Heidi Deigns, replace it with Benedict and Door— oh, I think I like that. I'm seeing a bright orange door in my future. Or blue. Purple. I like purple."

I smile as she continues to mutter colors at me till suddenly an image pops up on my screen.

"I sent you a sketch. Nothing major, but think on it. I'm going to go to bed. You ought to catch some Zs before you land, Ben."

We say our goodbyes before I take a good look at the image she sent via Skype. It's of a door, colored purple with Benedict & Door in block letters written in bright orange. At the bottom in Door's careful script is "designed by Cricket Heidi."

What I like the most, though, is a sentence written at the very top of the paper that has nothing to do with her new logo.

_A joint venture between Door Judoc and Benedict Cumberbatch…_

* * *

_A/N: The lyrics Door sings are "Dying Thoughts of an Atheist" by Muse, written by Matt Bellamy_


	13. Just Like a Paperback Novel

_A/N: "You'll Think of Me" was written by Darrell Brown, Dennis Matkosky, and Ty Lacy._

_Also, thanks for all the reviews and follows for this story!_

**_Just Like a Paperback Novel (Complete with Country Break-up Songs)_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela woke to a face full of Basil Bea Dog.

"Oh, you've got horrible breath. Get off," Pamela groaned, waving her hands around blindly in an attempt to get the over zealous dog off.

Pamela was not a dog person, but she didn't mind Basil Bea. The dog, when not barking her head off at things outside the tiny world of the hotel room, was a great dog. A little depressed and lost at the moment, but still a great all around dog. Not that Pamela knew a lot about dogs, Basil Bea being the only dog Pamela's had much contact with over the long term.

Basil collapsed next to Pamela on the bed, sending fur all over the place. Or hair. Basil didn't really have the typical dog fur. It was silky, smooth and rather hair like in texture. The dog simply had a TON of it and seemed to be going for bald.

Basil nudged Pamela's hand with her head a few times till Pamela gave in and pet the tiny cranium, right behind her floppy ears. Basil liked to be scratched behind the ears and went completely boneless till Pamela shifted to sit up. Basil tumbled off the bed, spun in a circle and made several strange noises Pamela had learned meant, "TAKE ME OUTSIDE! FEED ME!"

In that order.

Seeing the upheaval the poor thing had in her life in the past month, Pamela tried to stick to the schedule Door kept with the mutt. This aspect of Basil's stay with Pamela the dog had no issue with as Basil Bea was more than happy to be taken outside and fed on her usual schedule.

"Okay, we'll go outside. You wanna go outside?"

This got an instant reaction. Basil tore out of the bedroom, having forgotten the fake wood flooring in the rest of the suite and Pamela tried hard not to laugh at the noise Basil made as she attempted to run across the slippery surface.

"You are a moron. You do this every morning," Pamela chided the dog, walking out into the living room. Basil was seated by the door, tail wagging up a storm and swishing back and forth on the floor. "Well, this is the last morning we'll do this, BB. Door's on her way here to get you and take you away in that monstrosity sitting in the parking lot Jason left here last week."

The dog's ears drooped at the sound of her former owner's name.

Pamela knew that it was logical for Jason to give Door the dog. Door was the one who wanted the dog, Door was the one who took care of the mutt and who spent the most time with the animal. And yet, the dog clearly wasn't a huge Door fan. She was a Jason fan through and through. Jason, though, did not really have the time to care for a dog due to the nature of his job. (Pamela knew this, as she did not have time to care for Basil Bea since Jason had shackled her with the dog. Poor thing spent most of her life in her crate.)

Door had all the time in the world and support system to deal with the slightly adorable, yet idiotic, animal.

(Pamela was loath to admit, she'd miss the mutt after she went on her way north.)

Pamela got the leash around the over zealous dog's tiny head and managed to get them both out of the room without dislocating her thumb (something Pamela had been warned might happen as it seemed since the last time she'd cared for Basil Bea the dog discovered a liking for walking). The pair headed down the stairs, Basil's nose to the pavement in her never ending search for whatever she was looking for. They followed their usual path, which led them passed the jammed packed 4Runner— prepped and primed for its long trip north to Chicagoland. Pamela silently admitted to herself it was rather nice of Jason to give Door the 4Runner instead of leaving her stranded without a car. He'd gotten some sort of cheap car that Door would have never allowed him to buy in a million years and seemed happy enough.

Jason had shown up about a week after he'd first dumped Basil and Door's sewing things on Pamela with the rest of Door's stuff that had been in Del Rio. He seemed more sure of himself and hadn't brought Kirsten with him, but someone Pamela didn't know. He introduced himself as Mike Hill, fellow Laughlin IP. The guy was a happy, rather comical man and made the whole awkward situation less stressful.

Before he left, Jason had handed Pamela a packet of papers and a note to give Door when she found the time to come get the car.

"Make sure to tell her that I am going to continue paying for the 4Runner till it's paid off. When that happens, I'll gift it to her and she can get Illinois plates. And until she gets on her feet and can afford health insurance her dad make her get, we'll just be formerly separated and she'll still be covered under me."

"You know you ought to explain this to her."

"I have," Jason had said, looking tired. "I'm not sure she heard me, but if you tell her I think it'll sink in. Like it'll be real or something. I'm not sure. I don't…I don't really know Door."

The statement seemed to surprise Jason, but he shrugged and reverted back into Normal Jason, Introspective Jason having gone back to where ever he usually resided.

Pamela had no clue how this kind of thing worked, so she didn't ask Jason any further questions. She mostly wanted him out of her sight.

* * *

"Did you make it to…uh, France? Nice? Or Can something."

"_Nees_, yes. And the event is called the Cannes. I did make it. I've got a moment between the photo call and the premiere tonight. I wanted to hear your voice," Tom said. "So, what are your plans for your day, ladybird?"

Pamela rolled her eyes, though a smile broke across her face. Tom was trying out various other ways of saying "darling" as he called everyone "darling." So far, he favored "dove" and "cinnamon" for their historical roots. A few times he'd called her Sweet Chuck, which Pamela didn't even want to ask where that'd come from.

"Door and her brother are arriving this afternoon to drive the 4Runner to Chicago," Pamela said. "They seemed to not have the problems you did finding a plane."

"Or a train," Tom reminded her. "I had to take a boat."

"But, you still flew to, uh, _Nees_," she said using the pronunciation he'd used, "didn't you?"

"Yes and was met at the airport by photographers. Luckily, I had changed on the boat and was ready to go to the photo-call, which I was almost Ben late for."

"Oh my," Pamela laughed, knowing that meant Tom was almost embarrassingly late. "Have you spoke to Benedict?"

"I did. After I got back from Paris, I phoned him to see what was going on. I'd been a little out of touch with most people during my trips. He's going into business with Door."

"Yes. I heard that somewhere."

Tom chuckled. "Ben likes to be busy. I never did see him branching out into the fashion industry. And handbags at that."

"Well, you do carry a bag often," Pamela points out. "I'm sure Benedict does as well. And when she's not using lurid colors, they're kind of nice. Fucntional."

"I wouldn't know. I've yet to be gifted with a non-bright orange bag."

"She gave you an orange one?"

"Yes. It's more lurid than the one you've got. Where she found leathered dyed this blinding shade of orange is a mystery I plan to solve. Then make sure it is all destroyed."

Pamela giggled as her phone beeped in her ear. She took it away to see Door had texted her.

"I hate to cut this short, but Door and her brother are here. I must load Basil Bea into the car. And that requires fighting to get her into her seat belt. I guess Door stopped making her wear one, but I refuse to have her in my car without one. It's not safe."

Tom made no comment, likely secretly hoping with the minuscule mean bone in his body for bodily harm to come to the dog.

"She's honestly not that bad; are you Basil Bea?" Pamela cooed at the dog, who had put her head on her knee and was staring up at Pamela with big brown eyes. "You're a good dog."

Tom snorted. "Well, I'll let you be on tour way. I must get ready for tonight's premiere. I'm kind of excited. I love working with Tilda and the movie was…"

"Brilliant, I know, dear."

She could feel Tom smiling over the phone lines at her use of an endearment. She turned bright red.

"Well, cinnamon, I'll try to phone you tomorrow. I'll be heading back to London. Hopefully on a plane one way."

They said their goodbyes and Pamela commenced the battle to get Basil into her harness so she could use the seatbelt Pamela had gotten the mutt.

* * *

Pamela has never met David Judoc due to the fact when Door and Pamela had been in Del Rio together he'd out right refused to set foot in such a red state. Then, Door went off to another red state (Alaska) and David Judoc had appeared three times to play tourist.

"It's Alaska!" he'd defended.

"What about Texas? She's lonely now!" Door had shouted.

The following argument had been won by Door, clearly, as David Judoc was now standing in front of Pamela at the San Antonio International Airport.

"Hi," he said in a low, smooth voice.

So low, Pamela was pretty sure he could make some money with that voice.

"Hi. Nice to finally meet you."

They shook hands.

David and Door failed to look related, other than the out of control curly hair they both suffered in the Texas humidity. Door had yet to remove her sunglasses (Ray-Bans that looked much too large for her), but she didn't need to for Pamela to know Door looked like she might have been adopted if Pamela didn't know her mother had bright blue eyes and red hair.

David was dark haired and dark eyed.

The joy of regressive genes.

"Let's hit it, people. We've got to get to Dallas before bedtime," Door said, hitching up a HUGE leather bag over her shoulder.

"Is that a new design?" Pamela asked, eyeing the bag and wondering where David's luggage was. Door had two huge bags plus a suitcase— all of which she was carrying for some unknown reason.

"Yeah. It's the brain child of Cricket and Benedict," Door said, sounding proud. She pushed the overly large sunglasses up her nose and smiled.

Pamela frowned at the use of Benedict's full name. Door usually shortened his name, as did everyone else who knew the man except Pamela.

"Didn't I tell you? I did, right? Ben's going to be my partner! He's an investor and partner," Door explained, dragging her suitcase behind her. "Davy, can't you at least take your freaking bag?"

"It's purple."

"It's dark plum and so dark it's almost black. Take it, you mewing quim," Door ordered, shoving one of the bags at David.

David snatched the bag, which wasn't leather but it was still clearly purple and a Cricket design. He scowled deeply at his sister, who smiled sweetly and said in a sing song voice, "So take your records, take your freedom, take your memories I don't need 'em!"

"STOP!"

"Take your space and all your reasons!" Door sung out, using an all out country twang. "But you'll think of me!"

"Please, stop her," David begged. "It's like she's in high school all over again. We've been cannonaded to the same five songs for a fortnight!"

Pamela blinked. "You're one of them, too!"

"He likes archaic words," Door grumbled. "Fine. I'll stop. But, if you bad mouth my need for country music again, I'll cut you do bad you won't know what cut you so bad."

Door made a menacing face (which looked ridiculous with the oversized sunglasses sliding down her nose) and turned heel and walked off.

"It's not as bad as the orange thing she gave me," Pamela offered, motioning to the bag on David's shoulder.

Door scoffed. "That bag is notorious. Everyone adores it."

"Only because Loki carried it for some unknown reason," David grumbled. "Let's go. I can't wait to gun that stupid 4Runner into the ground."

"Hey, it's my stupid 4Runner and you will not kill the transmission!"

The two siblings began to squabble and continued until Door heard Basil barking.

"Basil!"

Door dropped her bags and dashed towards Pamela's Jetta. Pamela unlocked the doors and Door threw herself at her dog. Pamela and David grabbed up the discarded bags and put them in the trunk while Door and Basil got reacquainted with one another.

* * *

"You sure you don't just want to crash here for the night?" Pamela asked after they'd crammed the remaining things into the 4Runner that had been in the hotel room along with the bags Door had brought along.

"Yeah. We've got reservations at a hotel in Dallas. Then we'll head to St. Louis. Can't let Davy miss more than one day of work," Door said as David rolled his eyes.

"It was nice finally meeting you," David said, nodding his head to her as he got into the 4Runner.

"Yeah, you too." Pamela turned her attention to Door. "You okay?"

Door regarded Pamela for a moment and smiled a sad little smile. "Yeah. I will be. Just a few more days of sad country break-up songs and I'll move onto the angry music. Plus, Ben's helping a lot…you know, supporting this insane idea of actually starting my own label and not just doing it like I've been the past four years. You know, half assed. I mean, I left my mom to sew at least twenty bags this weekend as I reopened Cricket Heidi Designs and am having a going out of business sale. I'll have a ton of trips to the post office this week in my future."

"Why is your mom making bags if you're going out of business?"

"Because I'm still catching up on the orders I had taken before I fled the country. Cricket Heidi Designs is going out of business, but not till after Ben and I meet and iron out the final details. Sherlock's wrapped for the summer and Ben's going to come to Chicago after visiting the Queen."

"He's going to see the Queen?" Pamela asked, bewildered.

Door shrugged. "Some sort of garden party. Quite British. I was just going to fly my butt to London, but since I went and got all my business crap together for Du Page and Illinois, Ben said he'd just come to me. His people, because he has people, put him in contact with lawyers and people who know the dillio. So, hopefully I'll see you again. You're going to Enid right?"

Pamela stared at her friend for a moment, slowly catching up with the whirlwind of information Door had just dumped forth of her mouth.

"Yeah. Vance. They changed it while you were in London," Pamela said, raking a hand through her hair.

Door lowered her face, her glasses falling down reveal a look of envy at Pamela's hopelessly straight hair.

"Well, might be easier to get back and forth between OKC and London than here and London," Door offered, pushing the oversized shades back up her nose as David honked the horn. "I guess I gotta go. I'll try to come visit you in Enid."

Door threw her arms around Pamela, giving her a rather sweaty, hair filled hug before she dashed off for the 4Runner, leaping into the passenger side. David honked again (this time three little taps) and off they went.

When Pamela got back to her room, it was almost depressing to be greeted by an empty, yet organized room.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

"Something is different about you."

Tom glanced over at Tilda Swinton as they posed for pictures on the red carpet. She smiled a very small smile, her eyes sweeping over Tom's form.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Tilda gave him a mysterious smile, squeezing his hand as they stood on the stairs along with their fellow actors in the film. Camera flashes went off all over the place in an ongoing battle for best shot. Tom had been smiling all day so much he was glad he smiled as much as he did. At least he smiled often so he had strong cheek muscles.

"You've got that light in your eye," Tilda whispered in his ear, still wearing her mysterious smile for the camera. "It's a good look for you."

She turned her attention forwards and waved at the crowd with her free hand.

Tom smiled larger and held his hand up.

"You better keep that light," Tilda laughed as they were shuffled about for more photo ops. She squeezed his hand, a little hard. "Don't loose it."

"Fortune will not play me for a fool," Tom informed her.

She smiled.

* * *

Tom woke up the next morning in a hotel room in Nice, France. He sighed, rolling over in the overly pillowed hotel bed and wondered what had woken him up. He only had one thing that was pressing he had to do whilst in town and he'd done it all yesterday. Today he was supposed to enjoy the rest of the festival— which to Tom was going home. He had prep to do for the Shakespearean play he was going to do in the winter. Luke had made the announcement and and the promotional photographs were to be released soon. Tom was actually quite excited as he was working with a bunch of great people, including Mark Gatiss, besides the fact he was doing Shakespeare again.

"Your phone, sir, it rings," Tom muttered to himself finally realizing what had woken him up.

He pushed the heavenly duvet off of his body and searched for the phone as it blasted _Sherlock's_ theme song (yeah, he was one of those people who assigned people ringtones). He found the object on the coffee table. Sinking onto the couch he flicked the screen to see Ben had texted, not phoned. Texts Tom could deal with before coffee.

_Door did not do this, but she does approve. Except you're not allowed to be the next Doctor. She's made that quite clear._

Frowning, Tom went into the text menu and enlarged a photo of him from the day before in his blue suit. It took his sleepy mind a few minutes to figure out why Ben had sent him this picture out of the millions likely floating around. Tom caught sight (finally) of a white square that was not on the actual suit jacket. Holding the phone closer to his face, Tom read the writing on the square and burst out laughing.

**_I'm the police box, brilliant._**

_Like that didn't occur to you when you picked that lurid suit out. You should have known the Who fans would latch onto that and turn you into the TARDIS._

**_It is not lurid, Cumberbatch. It's stylish. I assume Door likes it?_**

_You're in it. Of course she likes it._

**_She likes me for my acting, not my style._**

_You have no style._

**_Says you. The world has another opinion._**

_Idiot._

**_Mewing quim._**

_Get a new insult, Loki._

**_You first, Sherlock._**

_That suit will forever be known as your TARDIS suit, you do know that, correct?_

**_Maybe it'll help my chances as being the next Doctor?_**

_No. Remember? You're not allowed to be the next Doctor._

**_Just because you no longer wish to do TV, doesn't mean I'd pass up the chance to play the Doctor._**

_You're too well known. They tend to cast unknowns, haven't you noticed? Also, aren't you busy for the next ten years?_

**_No, good sir, that would be you._**

_Currently not busy. I've got a bit of time to myself._

**_How are you still alive?_**

_That, good sir, I am not sure. I must find at least twenty different things to do at once or I might keel over._

**_Good Lord, you're serious, aren't you?_**

_Of course, though, I'm Benedict, not Sirius._

Tom chuckled.

_Well, I must dash. Just wanted to tell you that was not Door. Tragcially. She did do this…_

Another image popped in, one Tom had seen but it'd been reworked to make him look like something magical, mystical and other worldly.

Tom couldn't help it.

He broke out into loud laughter.

* * *

**Just Like a Paperback Novel…I'll Get to the Plot Someday**

**'Allo blog readers! I just wanted to let y'all know there's a TON going on in my life right now. I've moved (yet again, I'm a total moving machine, ya know?) and I'm relaunching my label— or launching a new label. Due to all you wonderful people who've been brought here by the likes of Tom Hiddleston and his Glorious Purse of Orangieness and Mark Gatiss showing the wider world Sherlock's penguin filled head, I've got fans! **

**I've got a following! **

**I've outgrown Etsy (sorry, dudes, but you're just not working for me no more)!**

**So, as I'm sure you've noticed, I'm having a going out of business sale! All purses will be shipped by 6 May 2013. After that, the shop will be closed until I get all the legal mumbojumbo together and we relaunch (and there is a we involved. I'm not alone any more!)**

**Don't worry, I'll still keep writing about my cray-cray life and be vague and frustrating on the re-launch. (I'm totally excited. It's actually hard not to shout it from the roofs and plaster pictures of all the new purses.)**

**So, to all of you who bought a Cricket Heidi Design purse, maybe one day once I'm totally the next Coco Chanel or something it'll be worth something?**

**The re-launch announcement will be posted here, on Twitter, on Facebook, and likely where ever else I can shout it from. So, watch out for it!**

**And just because I love y'all, here's an image of Tom in his TARDIS suit looking, well, like Tom.**

**(IMG. EHEHEHE. JPG)**

**(OMG, I cannot believe I actually KNOW him…if this is a dream, please don't wake me up.)**

***Mood* more chipper than I thought I'd be**

***Music* "Someday" by Nickleback (yes, I'm totally reliving my high school days…it's what I do.)**

Tom shut the laptop and looked up at Ben who was busy trying to pack his suitcase for Chicago.

"So, what are you two calling your business again?"

"Benedict and Door," Ben replied, pulling a box out from under his bed.

"Is she still sewing everything on her own?"

"Mostly. Her mother is a trained tailor I've discovered," Ben says, looking somewhat shocked. "Went to design school and has a fashion degree."

"So, I guess it's in her veins," Tom mused, eyeing the box Ben set on the bed.

"Yeah. Her mother did teach her to sew," Ben said, opening the box up. "Door sent these. She's been working on our designs for our first line."

"OUR designs?"

"She makes me have a say," Ben said, sighing a little as he extended a rather simple black bag out to Tom.

Tom stood up and took the bag, looking it over. It was made out of something that was heavier than cotton, but not as stiff as canvas. He fingered the leather accents around the top before flipping it open to study the interior of the satchel.

"This is nice," Tom commented. "I do like the tag."

The label inside consisted of a door, of course. It was a deep shade of aubergine, accented with lighter shades to show the detail. Across the middle in a rather elegant, yet orange font was Benedict & Door.

"She designed that herself. She's rather…driven when she knows what to do," Ben allowed, pulling out another bag. This was smaller and looked more like a women's handbag. Ben yanked out an even larger bag, in a rusted brown leather. "Door said this is carry-on luggage. She gave one to her brother to use when they went to get her belongings from San Antonio, only I guess his was dark aubergine. He did not like that."

"Of course not. At least it wasn't blindingly orange," Tom remarked. He gazed into the box to find it filled with bags in an array of quite normal shades. Tom picked up one in red wine. "Is this the entire line?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah. She's been a little worker bee since I got back from New York."

Ben tossed the bags he had gotten out back into the box and handed the whole thing to Tom, who took it stumbling backwards a little under the surprising weight.

"Now I've got the Queen's Garden Party tomorrow and then I'm going to go to Chicago before heading to Greece," Ben said, picking up the discarded shirts and stuffing them into his case.

"Greece?"

"I've got to do some Sherlock promotion. Martin's busy in New Zealand, so it's mostly up to me and Sue," Ben explained. "Door didn't really explain what she wanted you to do with these, but she said to give the box to you. I believe they are all normal shades to make up for the orange bag fiasco…"

"What am I to do with all these? Some of them are girly."

"You have sisters, correct?" Ben asked, leveling Tom a look. "I don't know. She just said here look at the bags, pick out what you like, then give the rest to Tom. I've looked, now, I'm giving it to you."

Tom stared down into the half open box in his arms.

"Well, the best way to get your label to be popular— stick them on celebrities. I know some," Tom assured, looking up at Ben with a huge grin. Ben appeared slightly alarmed. "I'll wait till you announce your big reveal, then hand them out to some of our more well known friends. I mean, what woman can turn down a free handbag?"

"Well, okay," Ben allowed. He raked a hand through his hair, making it look crazy.

"Brilliant. Business cards?"

"In the box. Seeing Door's done most of this before, she's gotten everything on that end in order. Mostly what we need is advertising, legal and other confusing things," Ben said, walking to his wardrobe and grabbing some folded up trousers. "Karon put us in contact with the right people, so everything should be sorted before I go to Greece. It's a small label, so…I'm so out of my league."

Ben turned around, looking as if he was realizing for the first time he was in over his head. He dropped the trousers and grabbed at his hair, making him look like a frazzled professor.

"Oh, it'll be fine. People do this thing all the time," Tom assured.

"Yeah, but they have an army of people behind them. Door and her mother are currently the entire production line."

"Well, you hired a business manager, correct?"

Ben nodded. "Her brother knew someone who was looking to get into something like this. Not the fashion world, but a small business."

Tom gave Ben a knowing smile. "I doubt it'll remain small."

Ben sighed, nodding his head in agreement.

"I don't know what to really tell you. I don't have any experience in this sort of thing," Tom admitted.

"I know. I'm just…"

"Trying to work yourself to death?" Tom teased. He set the box on the chair he'd been sitting on earlier. He crossed the room to where Ben stood next to the wardrobe. He placed a comforting hand on Ben's shoulder and smiled. "Don't die. What would Door do without you?"

"Run out of money?"

Tom gave Ben a look.

"I know, I know. She depends on me for more than a check," Ben assured, then slumped a little. "Karon told me I was an idiot for doing this without consulting her first."

"But, she still went about putting you in contact with the right people, didn't she?"

Ben nodded.

"I doubt he'd want you to fail. You failing reflects badly on her. And think of it this way, at some point she'll simply be designing and not sewing all the bags on her own," Tom offered. "Unless you fall from favor suddenly. I do not see this happening. Your villain is quite popular. Granted, not Loki caliber, but he's not exactly Voldemort."

"I've got a nose, I know," Ben muttered.

* * *

A few days later, Tom stared at the box of handbags. He scratched his head, then dialed his phone.

"LUKE! My favorite person!"

Luke sighed. "What do you want Tom? I'm only your favorite person in that manner when you need something."

"Oh, darling, come now. You are my favorite person."

"I doubt it. I'm pretty sure Pamela is your favorite person."

"Ah, caught me," Tom laughed. "Let's try this again."

Luke chuckled.

"Luke, my favorite publicist and friend!"

"Okay, I'll accept that. Now, what do you want?"

"A photographer."

"Pardon?"


	14. Domicile

_A/N: "Loser" was written by Beck and Carl Stephenson. "Deep Inside of You" was written by Stephen Jenkins. _

_19 July 2013 - While I'm not totally pleased with this, I think it gets what I wanted across and since today is Ben's actual birthday, I just had to post this Ben/Door chapter. Enjoy!_

**_Domicile_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

**Finding Home**

**9 June 2013**

**I've always been a homebody, a well dressed hermit who'd rather curl into a ball on the couch and watch ****_Doctor Who_**** (or a Tom Hiddleston flick) than go out and do anything. When I was about twenty, I realized that as long as I had a "home" it didn't matter where I was located. Home could be a dorm, a hotel room, a vacation retreat, a friend's home or my parent's abode. As long as there was somewhere within a dwelling I could call my own, I'd be hunkydory. **

**Then I fell in love and no where felt like home. **

**I fell in love in London (duh, where else would I fall in love for the first time?) and when I landed at O'Hare after a year away from Chicagoland, from my parents, from the familial home I felt nothing.**

**I landed at O'Hare and felt utterly and completely vacuous. **

**Yeah, I was delighted to see my family. Yeah, I was elated to sleep in my own bed again. Sure, it was nice to see the wide array of clothes I'd left behind. And yet, nothing felt…right.**

**Everything was fallacious. **

**I went back to college for my senior year and felt as if I was walking through a waking dream. I felt allochthonous— like I'd taken the wrong plane and landed on Clom. **

**It took me a long time to figure out what the hell was wrong with me. Then— randomly because if it wasn't random, then it would never have happened— I realized the problem.**

**I was homeless. Home is not a place, not just people. It's a feeling and I'd lost it. **

**So, what did I do?**

**I hopped on a plane and flew off to LA.**

**Yeah…it made sense at the time. **

**I spent two weeks in LA visiting a friend of mine and came home. Upon landing, O'Hare felt kinda like home. O'Hare always caused a certain reaction within upon landing after a trip— the only time it did not was after my return from London.**

**But, after my visit to LA, I felt that familiar jump in my stomach and relief of being ****_home_****. **

**I was home.**

**Why am I writing about this now?**

**Mostly because I have to go to the airport (also because I am random). Partly because…the last time I landed at O'Hare it didn't feel like ****_home _****(but also to be random, do not forget that I am random, hear me roar randomly). There was something amiss. Okay, there were a lot of things amiss, but I didn't feel the relief of coming home when the wheels hitting the tarmac. I stared around at the familiar surroundings and felt lost at sea. **

**I assumed it was due to all the strife in my life, but I know myself better now than I knew myself at twenty-one. If I knew then what I know now, I doubt I'd spent over eight months trying to figure out what was wrong. Instead, I spent roughly a week. (See, improvement!) **

**I'm homeless.**

**Not in the sense I lack a physical home. No, I got one of those. (I'm in it right now!) I lack that feeling home, the feeling of belonging somewhere. Yeah, it's nice to go home to your folks house, the one where beat up your brother, tried to paint your pink wallpaper yellow, hung upside down wondering what life would be like living on the ceiling…it's nice to go home. But, you know how they say once you leave home you can't go back?**

**You can't. Once you loose your home, you can't go back. You gotta find a new one. **

**Mood: Introspective**

**Music: "Motorcycle Drive By" by Third Eye Blind**

I shut the laptop and stare out the window blankly. The flight attendant pops up, instructing me all to put away my belongings and prepare for landing. Sliding the laptop into my new bag (Benedict & Door design), I stow it under the seat and lean back, mulling over Door's latest blog entry. She made it in the dead of night— likely around the time I was getting on the plane to head to O'Hare.

Closing my eyes as the plane lowers itself closer to the ground, I remind myself of all the reason I cannot be home for Door.

She's not getting a divorce.

She's not in any shape for anything other than a friend.

I know she never wrote it out clearly in that blog, but to Door, "home" is people. It's not a physical place, it's a feeling invoked by the people she surrounds herself with.

I am not home.

_You're an imbecile, Benedict_, I hear my mother's voice chide in my head.

Mum has told me on more than one occasion I'm an idiot (for a wide array of reasons). Granted, she always tries to use a polite word to tell me I'm being stupid in her eyes. She's yet to tell me I'm an idiot when it comes to Door (other than making friends with a married bird (she insists on using that word) when I ought to be finding a woman to marry and produce grandkids), but I know if she _knew_ the whole story, Mum would likely grab my ear and tug hard so she could tell me into my ear I'm a moron.

I am a moron.

I cannot let this…no. If I refuse to put any thought, words, or anything it will go away.

I'm a twit.

I rub my face with both hands as the plane touches down, bumping along the tarmac. I look out the window, taking in the scene Door sees in each time she lands at this airport.

My heart is beating like crazy, my stomach coils warmly and I'm antsy to get off the plane. I feel warm and welcome the fact that while I'd never admit it, I feel something akin to the relief I usually feel in coming back to London after being away for a long while.

I'm not going to call it a feeling a _home_, but it is close.

It is excitement, it is anticipation and it's…something I cannot and will not name.

Mostly, it's…I want off this damn plane.

* * *

I make it through customs and enter the waiting room for the international flights. It's a room filled with people and reminds me of the end scene of _Love Actually_. I look around for the over abundance of ginger hair I've come to associate with Door.

I cannot find anyone sporting out of control ginger hair.

"Grasshopper!"

What the…?

I turn in the direction of the voice only to be almost bowled over by someone who has dark, straight hair. I stumble backwards, yet remain upright as the person hugs me. I feel a minor well of alarm till the person pulls away and I see Door beaming up at me.

"Long time no see, huh?"

I stare at her blankly.

"What did you do to your hair?" I faintly ask, staring at the extremely straight hair that is the wrong color.

Door takes a few steps back and picks up the ends of her hair (which is extremely long now that it's been flattened out). She studies it for a moment before speaking again. "You don't like it?"

She sounds unsure and a little hurt.

Oops.

"No! No! It's not that. Er, no, em, it's just, well, uh, different. What prompted the change?"

Door never does anything with her hair— passed pulling it back in a haphazard ponytail. (Well, except the time she crashed the press junket, but that doesn't count.) Now, her hair is a rich chestnut color and under strict control. It's no longer the ginger mess I've come to adore. Without thinking I reach up and take the strands of hair Door's holding, rubbing the hair between my fingers. Last time I touched her hair it was textured from the way it naturally curled, yet still touchable.

Still hair-like in texture, but totally different from what it was the last time I saw her. It's silky, smooth, and alien.

"So?"

"It suits you," I hear myself saying, even though there's a bit of me that doesn't agree with what I've just said. "Quite nice."

"Quite nice," she echos in her attempt at a posh accent. (It's a fairly bad attempt at a British accent and comes out sounding like the voice she uses when she's talking for Basil— who for unknown reasons is a French spy as of late.)

I give her the stink eye, dropping her hair. I take a few steps back to put a respectable distance between us, as we're standing unnaturally close for public.

"No mocking the British, Ms Judoc," I chide.

"Ah, but, I do not mock, I praise," she says dramatically, blowing her fringe out of her eyes. She drops the accent as she adds, "I don't know how I feel about the bangs."

I gape at her, realizing she'd got thick fringe now. How'd I miss that before?

"I like it," I say, meaning it. I've always liked fringe on girls.

She smiles, hooking her arm through mine. "You pack light."

"Side effect of being an actor."

She quirks an eyebrow.

"Okay, that's not true. I've always been a light packer," I amend.

"I know, you wear the same three shirts," Door jokes, steering me towards the exit (hopefully). "So, we've got the rest of today free, but tomorrow starts the business meetings. I've been warned there is a lot of paperwork in our near future, Mr Grasshopper."

"Grasshopper?"

"You're tall," is all she says as way of explanation.

"It has nothing to do with the fact you go by Cricket?"

The face she makes is hilarious. "Of course not."

"Uh huh," I laugh, drawing her closer to me as we head for the door.

We walk outside and are greeted by rather mild temperatures for Chicago in June (if going by how many people are commenting on how cold it is for Chicago in the summer). I was worried I'd be over dressed in jeans and a my favorite button down, but it's actually quite cool as we head across the road towards the parking garage.

"I love it here," Door says out of nowhere as she leads me through the parking garage.

"You love car parks?"

"No! This kind of weather! It was horrible for awhile there, but the last few days have been utterly perfect compared to what I've gotten used to in Texas. God, I hate Texas."

I snicker. "Yes, I remember you mentioning that."

Door beams up at me.

God, she's got to stop smiling at me.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

My mom love Ben. I'm pretty sure if she wasn't married to my father, she'd marry Ben on the spot. Hell, she might dump my father's butt and run off with Ben.

It's kind of embarrassing how she's fawning over him as he sits at the bar in my parent's house— my current home till I stop being a loser twenty something (I'm not thirty till October, no matter what Tom says. Tom Hiddleston keeps rounding my age up. I am twenty-nine, not thirty. Thirty is OLD. Does the man know nothing? Never make a woman older than she is.)

"So, you're on break, then? No idea when _Sherlock_ will air?"

"No, sorry," Ben says likely for the millionth time. "We won't know the air date till after we finish filming likely."

My mom looks crushed.

"Well, at least she knows when that movie with the other guy stars in is coming out. What's his name again? Dom Hoddleson?"

"What?" I shirked. "How long have you known me?"

Mom gives me an infuriating smile and says, "Oh, I don't know. Do I know you?"

I let out a frustrated noise and stomp out of the kitchen. I don't know where I'm going. I shouldn't leave my mother alone with Ben. She'll likely either embarrass herself— or more likely me. She KNOWS me and knows all the embarrassing factoids of my life. OMG. What if she tells Ben about how I was born with a cone head? Seriously, my head was pointy. It fixed itself, but it's still embarassing for your mother to tell people you were born with a pointy head.

She always does this with guys I bring home.

Whoa.

That sounded wrong.

I didn't bring Ben home to meet my parents. I only brought him here because I'm a loser who has no where to live other than her parent's house.

Oh, god.

_I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?_

Oh, stop singing in your head and go save Ben. I turn tail, heading through the living room and dinning room to enter the kitchen through a difference entrance point from where I departed. (I left through the exit that goes into the front hall, then walked around through the living and dining room to sneak up on Ben, as his back is to me where he's seated at the bar in the kitchen.)

"BEN!" I shout, leaping into the kitchen, wearing a huge grin as both Ben and my mom jump. "Let's leave Mom to do whatever she does when she's at home and go…"

I trail off, loosing steam.

Where the hell do you take Benedict Cumberbatch in Villa Park?

Hell, where the frack do you take Benedict Cumberbatch in DuPage County?

* * *

You take him to the mall.

Yeah. The mall.

"I'm a schmendrick," I mutter, banging my head on the table in the food court.

"Bless you," Ben says like I just sneezed.

"Loser! I'm a looooooooser!"

"Oh, I don't believe that," Ben politely says around the spoon in his mouth. "I quite like this."

"It's Dairy Queen."

"It's good. I've never had it," he explains.

I lift my head and stare at him.

"Seriously!? Why didn't you say so! I could have taken you to the famous one! The original one with the sign and fame and in downtown Lombard! The one that closes on the hottest day in September and opens on the coldest day in March!"

I flop my head back on the table.

"Somebody shoot me," I mumble.

If someone had told me one day I'd be brining BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH to Yorktown to feed him Dairy Queen of all things, I'd laughed in your face.

So, not laughing now.

"Well, I'll be here for a week," Ben says. The spoon scrapes the bottom of the plastic cup he's eating out of. "We can go to this famous one another afternoon."

I make a noise. I can't even form words.

I'm at a mall. I **_hate_** malls. I hated malls when I was in HIGH SCHOOL. Especially YORKTOWN. It was so lame compared to Woodfield. Or Oakbrook.

I should have taken Ben to OAKBROOK. I live CLOSER to Oakbrook.

God, I am a failure at life.

"So, is this where you hung out as a teenager?" Ben asks. The plastic spoon scours the bottom of the cup.

"No. Not really. Well, sometimes. Only under duress. Then again, there's not much to do around here, hence why we're here."

We've been here for what feels like several lifetimes. No one has realized Benedict Cumberbatch is at the mall (that I know of as no one has approached us). I figured he'd be accosted rather quickly due to the fact he's got Sherlock hair. I don't know what is throwing people off. The shirt he's wearing must be his all time favorite shirt, as I've seen him pictured in it enough to realize he wears it often.

I love it when famous people repeat clothing. (I so want Tom to wear his TARDIS suit again.)

I lift my head up and open my mouth to suggest we flee when I hear someone ask, "Is that you Dizzy?"

No one calls me Dizzy.

Well, okay, at one point in my life people called me Dizzy, but I don't associate with those people any longer. (D for Dorothea and Z for that god awful middle name my mother stuck me with. DZ, Dizzy, get it? Yeah, I thought it was lame as well, but it stuck when I was in high school because I had this one friend who ALWAYS called me Dizzy. We are no longer friends.)

I turn my head to the left and find someone who I think I ought to know standing next to the table, looking at me in an expectant manner.

God, I knew I shouldn't have died my hair dark again. (I had dark hair in high school because I hated being a redhead. In college, I went blond. I can't remember when I embraced the ginger mess I was gifted by nature. Likely when I was in Del Rio and lacked an Aveda salon. I am a brat and will only use Aveda salons to color my hair. And cut it. I didn't get a hair cut for over a year when I lived in Del Rio. I didn't bother with the color in Anchorage because I fainted when I saw how much it'd cost to dye it anything, so I just had them chop it off. My mom paid for me to have my hair done last week. Likely out of pity, as I am pitiful lately.)

"Er," I trail off, staring at the person.

"It _is_ you!" the person exclaims, leering at me.

I give the person a vague smile.

I feel like I ought to know that leer. She looks…please dear god no.

"It's Miranda!"

No way.

"Oh!" I say, sitting up a bit straighter.

This is the person who started the whole let's call Door _Dizzy_ because it's totally cute! As I stated before, we are not friends. (And not in the manner I am sometimes not friends with Basil the Barking Menace. Miranda and I are not friends in the manner we will never be friends again because I cannot stand her.) Miranda and I had a major fall out right before graduation. (Over a boy, what else do girls fight over?) (I am being sarcastic. Girls fight over a wide array of things.)

I'm pretty sure I once told someone if I never saw her again, I'd be grrrrrr-ATE.

This is so not the time to run in with someone whose last words to you were, "I hope he breaks your heart."

He didn't, by the way. I broke his. Because that's what I did till I got my heart broken.

Now, I'm just a washout.

"Hi," I offer.

"Cricket?" Ben inquires politely.

I look at Ben and blink. Why did he just call me Cricket?

"Oh, who is this?" Miranda asks, looking snide.

I stare at her for a long beat, then look back at Ben.

I doubt Miranda has a clue who he is, nor would she find him attractive. I find him good looking, so she wouldn't. Miranda doesn't like the guys I like. We've NEVER thought the same guys were cute. This was always nice because we never had crushes on the same guys in high school. She liked guys I thought were fugly and I liked guys she couldn't understand why I wanted to even look at them.

Odd that our last and final fight was about a boy— who I was dating. (It was a BAD relationship, and I guess she was right. He was controlling my life, but she went about showing me all wrong. She picked fights with me and then gave me an ultimatum. Her or him.)

"He's Ben," I announce, pointing at him. "He's from London."

Miranda gives me a knowing look and clicks her tongue.

Oh god, I can't believe she still does that.

"I guess you did it in the end, huh?" she says in a strange tone. That annoying smug, snide, greater than thou expression appears on her face. "Moved off to London, then? I thought you'd married some guy in the military?"

I'm not surprised she knows that bit of information. Miranda always knew everything about everyone— even people she had no right to know anything about.

"Do you see a ring?" I ask, mostly to piss her off about having her information wrong.

It backfires.

She stares at my hand, smirking. It's clear a ring did live on that finger from the way it's deformed where my ring used to sit. She brings her left hand up in front of her and fondles the ring she's wearing.

Bit-ka. (A curse I invented, BTW. Well, kind of. It was inspired by Xander Harris' fail at spelling in one episode of _Buffy_.)

"Darling," Ben cuts in, looking at his cell phone. "We're going to late for our appointment."

Huh?

Ben stands up, pushing in his chair and gathering his trash. Holding it in one large hand, he offers the other one to Miranda.

"It was lovely to meet an old acquaintance of Cricket's. Sorry we couldn't stay and chat," Ben smoothly says, oozing charm. He gives a smoldering smile to Miranda, rendering her speechless.

I blink at him.

Who the hell is this man and what did he do with Ben?

Ben is all self-conscious, maladroit charm and dorkiness rolled into a gawky, yet adorable shell.

He's not smooth.

He's not dripping sex like he's now.

Mirada says nothing, nor does she move to take his hand. She gawks, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes wide.

Ben is so getting an award. That woman has not changed since high school (except physically, as we all do) and she NEVER shuts up. She can talk for five hours straight and never take a break. (I know. I had a phone to my ear for five hours and said nothing. My dad thought I was just holding the phone to my ear to be strange.)

Ben drops his hand as if it wasn't awkwardly hanging in the air over the table and pulls my chair out from the table.

"Uh, bye," I say quickly, acting like a spaz to get out of the chair. Ben swoops in and saves me, putting an arm around my waist and literally carries me out of the food court. He smoothly tosses the trash out and heads for the escalator. Ben tightens his grip as we head down, looking around cooly as if he's playing—

Oh. Ben's gone into actor mode.

I've got Actor Benedict Cumberbatch next to me and he's seriously playing some sort of role. I wonder who he's channeling?

"Thanks," I mumble as we hit the ground floor. "I guess it was obvious we didn't part on good terms."

I wait for Ben to let go of me, but he doesn't. He moves forward, steering me more than carrying me now that I seem to be able to use my feet.

"I did pick up on that," he says, smiling. My Ben brakes through the facade of the character. "You've never mentioned her before, so either it was horrid or no longer important. From her smug expression, she's heard about your failed marriage and wanted to rub it in your face that you're a failure at life, to utilize a phrase I've heard you use much too often as of late. While I doubt she realized who I was, which was fine, I figured since I'm not a complete waste, do a little acting."

"I love you," I mutter as we exit the mall. I take note of where we've absquatulated. "Wait, no. I've changed my mind. You took us out the wrong bloody exit. We've got to go back in and go to the other end of the mall."

"Or we can just walk around the building," Ben says, letting me go. "It's nice. I'm jet lagged. Fresh air will do me good."

"Oh. Sorry!"

I'd totally forgot about jet lag.

"It's fine. Shall we?"

Ben offers me his arm, which I take and we start around the stupid mall to where I parked the car on the other side. It'd be faster to walk through the stupid hellhole, but it is kind of nice to walk outside in the early evening summer air.

* * *

We get home passed dinnertime, but Mom made plates for us and shoves them at us the moment we walk in.

"David is mad at you," is the first thing she says. (Well, after making sure Ben is comfortable, enjoying his dinner, and telling him Basil tried to take out make a break for it when she saw some sort of critter in the backyard this afternoon. Not sure why this is important for Ben to know, but whatever.)

"Oh, he can go stuff it," I mutter, stabbing at my mashed potatoes.

"Well, he was rather colorful in his anger that you'd…ran off with his car," Mom says.

"Well, he had the 4Runner!"

When I went to get Ben, I found out Davy had driven the 4Runner to work. I had to take his car, which is actually my mom's car, today. It was…nice not to drive that stupid monstrosity.

"Well, he was livid," Mom says, setting a glass of milk in front of Ben. "You need this."

Ben blinks and says, "But, I had ice cream."

My mom stares at Ben, wearing a Mom look. "Ice cream isn't calcium. It's sugar."

He simply nods and drinks his milk. He excuses himself when he's finished and vanishes. My mom starts talking about something to do with purses, so I entertain her for a moment till I remember to tell her about running into Miranda.

"I thought she'd moved away?" Mom asks, gathering up the dishes and shoving them into the dishwasher.

"I dunno. I guess I'm going to go make sure Davy picked up his underwear. I think Ben's kinda tired," I say, heading to the front of the house. I pause before heading up the stairs when I spot Ben on the front porch, leaning against the railing. I peer through the tiny windows next to the door wondering why the hell he's outside. It takes me a moment before I notice him raise his hand to his mouth.

Oh.

He smokes.

It'd slipped my mind. I've seen him in photos with a cigarette in hand, but they are so few and far between, it never actively entered my conscious he smokes.

He doesn't smell. (Okay, he smells, but he smells good. He's got the whole I-Wear-Cologne-That-Will-Linger-In-Your-Nose-But-I t-Is-Never-Overwhelming down pat.)

I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked. He smelled like smoke all the time.

(Even after he dosed himself in cheap cologne.)

(Maybe that's Ben's secret? He doesn't use the stuff you can get anywhere, but the expensive stuff you have to actual go to a fancy shop to get? I bet it's from France or something.) (I say France because the BEST perfume I've ever worn was made in France and was PRICEY. Then again, it was Balenciaga. Have you seen how much their purses cost?)

I've been with Ben for hours (multiple times) (dude, I've been with Ben one on one multiple times!). He clearly isn't a serious smoker (like pack a day or more), as this is the first time I've seen him light up. I read somewhere when he's filming _Sherlock_ he doesn't smoke. (Hence why I didn't see him smoke when I was in the UK. Duh.) The article said it was for the voice (smoking does ruin ones voice I guess), but it might be for the manic edge that lacking nicotine might give him.

Oh, what am I talking about? I'm an idiot.

Though…

Why do guys look so good smoking? I know it's gross and unhealthy and will kill him, but I can't help it…he looks…good.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I think of any other words? I know lots of words. I make up words, yet I can't get passed _good_ for a description of Benedict Cumberbatch?

"Rghuhseuh," I fume, stomping up the stairs.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I turn at the noise of someone stomping up the stairs. The house is not very sound proof, or who ever is using the stairs is really trying to be loud.

"DOOR! HOW OLD ARE YOU?" shouts her mum.

"TEN!" Door shouts back.

I chuckle quietly.

I turn back around and survey the neighborhood. It is the ideal and stereotypical suburban American neighborhood. The houses are a mixture styles, but they are all well maintained (home and lawns). There is the faint sound of children playing somewhere and dogs parking off in the distance. (Or closer, as I'm unsure if Basil Bea is joining in the dog chorus. She does adore a good barking.)

Stubbing out the cigarette on the bottom of my shoe, I wonder what I ought to do with it. I don't want to take it back into the house with me to bin, but I'm not going to leave it on the ground in the garden her mum painstakingly nurtures in front. Sighing, I open the half empty pack, stick the useless bit in, and shove the pack back into my pocket.

I really ought to quit.

I can't even remember why I started.

Again.

I give it up when I am working. When I stop working, I start smoking again.

"Benedict?"

I jump, not having heard the door open behind me.

"What are you doing out where?" Mrs Judoc asks, peering at me through the screen door.

I wave my hand around my head, vainly trying to dispel any smoke that might linger. "Oh, nothing."

She raises an eyebrow at me, but says nothing.

She knows.

Of course she knows. She's a mum. They ALWAYS know.

"Door's made sure David's room is in order," she says as I finally stop waving my hand around my head. "Did you kill it?"

"Pardon?"

"The bug?"

"Oh, er, not sure."

She raises both eyebrows, looking so much like Door it's bewildering. (Except for the fact, it's not as the woman is Door's mum.)

"Well, come back inside. Don't want you to be eaten alive by mosquitos."

"Do they eat people?"

Mrs Judoc laughs, opening the screen door. I hurry inside, but put distance between us as I'm aware I reek of smoke.

"MOM!"

"WHAT?"

"STOP IT."

"I have no idea what you're alluding to Dorothea," Mrs Judoc says in a sing song voice up the stairs. "Go on up, Benedict. David is staying at his friend's while you're here, so you'll have his room."

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs Judoc," I say, bowing my head.

"Oh, please call me Martha, Benedict," she insists.

"Martha," I correct. I add a smile and the woman beams at me, before shooing me up the stairs. Once up, I head to the only lit room, stopping once I come into an overly pink bedroom.

"This is not your bedroom," I say, eyeing the flower patterned wallpaper and boarder. Oh, look, there's white and pink stripes behind the door. And flowered cut-outs near the light switch.

Dear Lord.

"Uh, yeah. It is. I reclaimed it!" Door shouts from behind me, pumping her fist into the air. "Davy took it over after I moved out, but I took back the man cave!"

"He had a pink man cave?" I faintly ask.

The room is alarmingly girly. I cannot see it being a man cave at all (even with the oversized telly, state of the art sound system and rather fancy looking futon that reside in the room).

"Yeah, complete with a pirate flag," she snickers. "I removed that, as he hung it right over the closet. Couldn't access my clothes. Also, while that futon might look inviting, it's got a David's butt shaped hole on one end. Let me tell you, it's not nice to wake up in the Gluteus Maximus Indentation."

I make a noise of understanding, still in shock over the PINK room.

"You're down here," she says, tugging on my sleeve. "Unless you really want to sleep on the air mattress in my dad's office, which you might. I've always thought Davy's room smelled like feet."

"Uh…I don't want to be a bother," I say, still staring at the frilly…room.

It is so not Door. It's too…flowery. Too country. Too…normal. Door's bold colors— aqua, eggplant, hot pink. And… the flowers are all wrong.

"I thought you'd have…I don't know, a more funky childhood room."

Door snorts. "Have you seen my mother? The rest of the house?"

"Yes, I have," I say, turning around and following Door back down the hall.

"She picked the wallpaper and matching carpet. See how it picks up the green in the flowers," she explains, indicating on the delicate flower pattern where I ought to look. "Since it was hell to wallpaper, it's never been redone since she put it up when we moved in. I wanted blue flowers when she gave me a choice, but it didn't match the ugly pink bed spreads my grandma had given me at some point. Or something. I don't remember. I was ten."

"And now you're twenty-nine," I say.

Door nods, turning and exiting the room. I follow her down the hall the way I came to a masculine looking room with a single bed. I quirk an eyebrow at her.

"He got it before he discovered girls," Door explains. "Like two weeks. He's grumped about having a twin bed since. But, it's extra long because Davy is tall. Or so he says. I don't get a say in the matter because I'm the shortest."

I chuckle. Even having only met her mother, I can understand she'd be the shortest. Her mother is a good three inches taller than Door, who is not exactly short.

"The bathroom's just behind me. You'll have to share it with me, but I'm quiet neat compared to Davy. I also do my hair in my room," Door babbles, looking over her shoulder. She goes into the toilet, which is directly across from the open door of David's room. She flips the light on. "Towels are here on the vanity, all belonging to you. Uh…I put your suitcase on the chair in there. And, uh…I think that's it."

"Thank you," I say. "I guess if it's not too much of a bother, I'll go to bed."

I am knackered. I'm amazed I'm still awake.

"Sleep, my grasshopper," Door says in a deep voice, then laughs. "We gotta be outta here by eight, so set an alarm or something. Night."

She waves and exits. I hear the door down the hall slam shut.

I look around the room that belongs to a little brother I've not met and stare at the various Chicago sport theme items tacked to the walls. I ought to feel more strange about staying in Door's childhood home, in her brother's bedroom, but I'm too exhausted to feel much of anything.

* * *

Three days later, my head is a muddled mess still. While I'm used to contracts (I've signed a few in my day), I've never had to deal with so much minutia as I've had to deal with these past three days in starting the label with Door.

Who knew there was so much paperwork involved in launching a label?

"I'm so glad Davy knows Mitch. We'd be up a creek without him as our business manager," Door mutters as we stand outside an office building somewhere in suburban business park hell. I've no clue where we are other than some sort of business park. We've gone to several different business parks in the past three days. Mostly because Door kept getting lost. They all look the same.

"Quite right," I agree.

Mitch has been a lifesaver. He knows what he's doing, while Door and I are two clueless dimbos.

"I'm exhausted," Door groans, fishing through her handbag for the keys to the 4Runner. "Who knew opening a business was like going back to school. I'm now glad I didn't become a lawyer. I knew law school would kill me dead."

I eye the white 4Runner parked across the parking lot from where we're standing on the sidewalk. While I know in America cars are a little bigger and the roads are a tad wider, and yet when in the 4Runner, everything is so small. Other people on the roads must thing the 4Runner is larger than life as well, as I've noted people tend to get out of Door's way when they see her coming.

"Well, at least we're up and running," Door says, finding the keys. "Uh, do you need…"

She trails off, waving her hand at me. I blink at her a moment before I realize what she's alluding to.

"I'm fine."

She nods. "I don't mind, you know. Well, I guess I mind if you smoke around me as I don't want to die of lung cancer—"

I wince.

"—but other than that, I don't give two shakes. Whatever you smoke doesn't smell as bad as weed or…whatever."

She looks dodgy and walks off before I can inquire what the "whatever" might have been. I follow after her, hands in my pockets, fiddling with my quite crushed pack of cigarettes. I'm conserving. While cigarettes are cheaper here than in London, I learned my lesson a long time ago not to buy them in America. Like tea, they are different.

I really ought to quit.

"So, uh…now what?" Door asks, unlocking the 4Runner. "It's not too hot. We could take Basil Bea for a walk. The Prairie Path is nice and near the house. Basil likes it. I guess it smells good. And if my mom took her for an afternoon walk, she'll be tired and won't try to dislocate my arm!"

I chuckle as I get into the car. (We took the dog for a walk the second day I was here and that dog can power walk. I had trouble keeping up with the five year old mutt after Basil attempted to rip Door's arm out of the socket to investigate some sort of smell on a tree.)

"I can't believe we own a business," I say as she starts the car up. "My head cannot simply wrap around it."

Door shrugs. "Eh. Tom wants to throw a launch party."

"A what?"

"Isn't that what people do when they start fashion lines? Have launch parties?" Door asks me like ought to know all about launch parties for handbag labels.

I have no idea.

Even after lessons in law, all the contacts I've read and all the other things I've done the past three days, I still have no idea what I'm doing. The easiest thing was when I wrote the check to deposit in the business banking account (because you can't open with a wire transfer or an online deposit or something).

"No clue. I've been to launch parties for things," I allow.

"Tom said we should contact Luke."

"Why would we contact Luke? I have my own publicist."

"Oh, yeah. Duh," Door says, throwing the SUV into reverse. "I guess we ought to talk to Mitch too. I forgot to mention it and he didn't say anything. I mean, who would I invite here? I know…well, my family."

"Miranda."

Door snorts. "Yeah, uh, no. I knew the moment I left high school the last time if I never saw a soul from that ditch I'd be fine."

"Ditch?"

"OMG. I haven't shown you The Ditch."

* * *

The ditch turns out to be the secondary school Door attended and she claims it is in a ditch. I can somewhat see what she means, as we did travel down a hill to get to the school.

"You can see the whole in a ditch thing in the mornings. It'll be foggy nowhere except around the school," she explains as we sit the bonnet of the 4Runner in an empty parking lot staring at the tennis courts (which are painted blue for some reason).

I take a long drag from the cigarette dangling between my fingers. I hold it in a moment before blowing a stream of smoke out of my mouth and allowing the light breeze to take it away from Door.

"I tried smoking once," Door randomly proclaims. "I didn't do it right."

"Pardon?" I ask, turning to face her.

"Yeah. I did all my teenage rebellion the summer before I started college. I was…I don't know what I was, but one night I just got into the car and dove to the store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Because I'm piliated, I love buying cigarettes. I don't know why. I always wanted to do it. So, one night I just did it. I came home, took the screen out of the bathroom window and smoked. Or puffed."

Door shakes her head, the pencil straight dark hair cascading over her shoulders. I watch, transfixed.

"Anyways, I kept up the habit till one night I woke in an utter panic that I was going to die of lung cancer," she goes on. "Even though I didn't inhale when I smoked— ha ha ha— I was still exposing myself to second hand smoke each time I lit one, which wasn't regularly. More often than not, the pack went stale before I finished it. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think I ever finished a pack."

I drag my eyes off her hair to find her smiling ironically.

"My pack is getting stale. It's surprising how little time it takes a pack to stale," I say.

"Not an avid smoker, huh?"

"I'm constantly quitting for work," I explain, turning away from her to take another drag. "It is calming. I get tightly wound. That's why I started— well, not why I started originally, but why I keep starting after I stop for work."

"Peer pressure or did you wanna be cool?"

"I wanted to be cool," I drawl out, staring at the death stick in my hands.

"I figured," Door laughs. "You know, I know it's gross and it's horrible for you, but I still think it looks cool. And it annoys me. And I still want to buy packs of cigarettes all the time."

I chuckle. "Only you, Door, only you."

"Yup."

A few cars drive down the road, but other than that the area is quiet. For some reason the noise from the main road and a near by major thoroughfare don't reach us in the car park by the blue painted tennis courts.

Oddly, I feel as if I'm in some sort of angst filled teenage movie.

"Give me that."

Door reaches across me and grabs the cigarette from my fingers. She sucks in and blows out before inhaling the smoke into her lungs. I watch the smoke curl out of her mouth utterly bewitched. She stares at the cigarette between her fingers for a moment before handing it back to me.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

"Not really."

"Hmmm. I doubt you get any of the addictive drugs when you do that," I comment, before taking one last drag and stubbing out my cigarette on my shoe. I glance around and see a litter bin near the other side of the tennis courts. I slide off the bonnet. I can feel Door's eyes on me as I walk around to the other side to bin my trash.

"I played tennis once," Door calls, sliding off the car with no grace. (Honestly, it's amazing she didn't fall on her face.)

"I cannot see that," I tell her as I make my way back to the car.

"I was okay. I never went out for my school's team. Once because I didn't know when tryouts were and once because I was grounded."

"You were grounded?"

"Yeah. I came home late and didn't answer my cell phone," Door explains. "I did play for gym on those courts. It was during my 'dude' phase."

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'dude' ever other word. And sometimes in place of other words," she grins. "Let's go. This walk down memory lane was fun, but still hate the place."

Door gets back into the 4Runner. I stare at the building for a moment. It's a very typical American high school building— built during the crush of the Baby Boom and later expanded, thus its varying styles of architecture. It's hard to imagine Door at this place. I cannot see her exiting the school, playing tennis on the blue courts or seeing her anywhere on the grounds. It's impossible to picture Door and Miranda getting along with one another as friends and walking through the hallways, passed the classrooms with walls of windows.

It must have been distracting on nice days to sit in class with the view of all the green fields that surround the ugly building.

The Ditch (as Door keeps calling it) is completely different from where I spent my formative years. Not only in architecture, but she did not _live_ here as I lived at Harrow. And yet, her years influenced her in similar ways mine at Harrow shaped me.

I turn away from the school (and my deep thoughts) and find Door waiting for me to join in her in a car her ex-husband is allowing her to have out of the goodness of his heart (or guilt).

Door waves at me.

I wave at her.

She rolls her eyes and taps her watch.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I head for the car. I get into the car and Door starts it up. She stares at the building, leaning forward on the steering wheel.

"I hate it here," she admits. "And not just because I hated high school." She quietly observes the ugly building before she continues. "This is the suburban nightmare people write books about— the whole nine yards. There were cliques, fights, battles, strange teachers, misunderstandings and a whole host of other things that if I wanted, I could turn out several young adult books filled with angst and strife."

She leans back and looks blank. She throws the car into reverse.

"I hate it here. I hate being here. I don't want to be here, Ben."

I give her a look of concern as she turns to back out.

"Everyone likes going home. Home changes, you know, as you grow up."

I nod, as my home has changed several times since I moved out of my parent's home. And yet…

"But there's always somewhere that is your first home, you know? Usually, it's your parent's house, where you grew up. I don't feel at home in my parent's home. I don't fit there, I don't belong there. Do you understand?"

I really don't.

"I lost what I marked as home," Door goes on without bothering to wait for me to answer. "I lost him a long time ago. I've been homeless for years and only realized it on the floor of your hotel room in Cardiff. Since then…"

Door snorts bitterly, looking both ways before turning out of the parking lot.

"You're homeless?"

"Yeah. I've been borderline miserable since I was twenty-one."

I frown. "You're always miserable?"

"Miserable is the wrong word. I've been content for the last six years. Some days are better than others, but I've lost that pseudo-content feeling since I realized I'm, well, homeless. Home is where the heart is."

"And you lost your heart," I whisper and Door gives me a rather sad smile as she comes to a stop at a stop sign.

"_I've lost myself, there's nothing left. It's all gone_," she sings softly. She flicks the single to turn left and finishes the line as she turns the car, "_Deep inside of you…" _

I feel incredibly sad.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Having successfully rained on any parade we might had had at triumphantly opening up Door & Benedict, I take Ben to the historical Dairy Queen in Lombard that night after dinner to make up on my teenage angst moment. We get there before the baseball/soccer/softball/whatever sport you play in the summer in Lombard/Villa Park crowd arrives.

Ben loves Dairy Queen.

The moment I suggest it after dinner, his eyes lit up like a kid's. It's so clear to anyone he's excited, my FATHER even noticed. (And he never notices anything. I'm pretty sure I could dye my hair bright green and he'd fail to notice.)

Because I'm no longer raining on parades, I allow Basil to join us since Ben wanted to bring her with us. (Basil Bea likes Ben. She only barked at him when he came into the house and that was only because she REMEMBERED him and was excited to see him.) (Unlike when she barked at Tom for hours. She hates Tom Hiddleson. Traitor dog.)

"Why did I let you convince me to bring this Menace to Society?" I ask as the dog whines and whimpers at the various people who have shown up to get ice cream tonight. "Let's go over to the park."

"There's a park around here?" Ben asks, greedily eyeing the Blizzard in his hands.

He's never had one and about had a conniption when I explained what it was. I don't know what kind he got, but it's filled with crap.

"Yeah, over yonder," I say, jerking my head in the direction of Lilacia Park. "It'll lack it's namesake flower, as those aren't in bloom any longer, but it's still nice. We used to go to church in the park in the summers."

"Now where do you go?"

"Nowhere," I reply. "We used to attend that one."

I point across the street with my hand holding my hot fudge and marshmallow shake, as the other hand has got Basil the Whimper Will's leash.

Ben blinks at the building across the street. "And you no longer do?"

"I think my mom sometimes goes, but Davy and my dad haven't gone since I started college. Church politics. Come on, this way."

Ben blindly follows me across the street and the few blocks to the park. I babble on about the park is known for: lilacs. I tell him about how in the spring when they are blooming, the whole downtown of Lombard smells of lilacs. I share the stories my dad used to tell me when I was a kid about him getting off the train and being overpowered by the smell. (We lived in Lombard till I was ten and we moved to Villa Park.)

We wander through the park with our melting ice cream till Ben sits down on a bench off the path and near the open space where the church would hold its Sunday services in the park. (They might still do it. I don't know. I haven't lived here in six years.)

"You can almost forget you're in suburbia whilst here," Ben comments, digging into his melting cup of ice cream.

I nod, waiting to be hit with that wave of melancholy that's been haunting me since I got back from London. No where has felt familiar, no where has had that _home_ feeling I desperately wish it had.

It doesn't come.

In fact, for the first time since I realized I was homeless, I don't feel lost.

I feel content.

"Ouch. Basil!"

Basil just tried to take my arm off to get at another dog waking on a nearby path.

Ben takes the leash from me, chucking his cup into a near by trashcan. He smiles at me, offering me his hand.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, taking his hand.

He doesn't let go, pulling me towards the path where Basil the Tugapotamus is jonesing to go. Ben starts talking. I'm not sure what he is saying, as his voice is soothing and dulling the noise Basil is making in her quest to be the worst dog in the world. (Okay, not the worst. She's rather well behaved for an idiot.) I'm not sure how far we've walked through the park (it's not big, but we've looped a few times) before I realize I'm holding Benedict Cumberbatch's hand. Like seriously holding his hand. Not just my hand in his, clasped together innocently. There is finger weaving going on here.

Why am I holding his hand?

Why is this not a problem?

It should be a problem, right?

I can't remember the last time I held someone's hand. I would guess it was Jason, the last time I forced him to take my hand. Jason didn't like hand holding. All the couples we hung out with held hands while walking places, but he never could hold my hand for more then five-seconds before he'd break free.

Ben is holding my hand.

And I feel…

I feel at home.

Oh…frack with a cherry on top.

Ben is home.

Freaking Benedict Cumberbatch is **_home_**.

Oh, dear me.

I shouldn't be surprised.

* * *

Ben's days in Villa Park go by quickly after we square away all Benedict & Door business. He's in Greece now being all fluffy haired and tan. (He tans easily. How is this fair? I thought he was a ginger. WE do not TAN.)

And I am here, in Villa Park once again feeling void, empty, and lost.

Ben is home, my home.

Well…frack me.

Ben is home. My friend, Benedict Cumberbatch, gives me that content, fuzzy feeling of home. He goes away and I feel…well, like I've felt pretty much since I feel in love with Chris all those moons ago and then he went back to New Zealand.

I did not fall in love with Ben. Right? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I don't love him. I like him. I find him attractive, but he's my FRIEND. He is my male friend. And now business partner.

I let out a frustrated noise and bang my head on the table I'm seated at in the basement. Mom and I have turned our unfinished basement into purse making central and I'm getting cracking now that Mitch and Davy have the website up and running.

Well, when I say cracking…

"Door, why are you banging your head against the table?"

"It seemed like the thing to do," I mutter, lifting my head to see my mom sitting down across from me at her sewing machine. "Am I crazy?"

"Of course you are, honey," Mom assures. "Do you need to see a doctor for it? Now, that is a question I've been asking myself since you learned to talk."

I give her a dirty look, push out all thoughts of Ben and home from my mind and get to work. I've got purse to make.


	15. Don't Ratiocinate

_A/N: Once more, thank you so much for your reviews, thoughts, follows and favorites on this story._

_"Birthday" was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. _

**_Don't Ratiocinate, My Life is the Stuff of Dreams_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

The loud, ringing cell phone woke Pamela instead of her alarm. Blearily, she flopped her hand at the nightstand till she felt the light radiating, noise emanating object. She stared at the screen, seeing Tom's goofy, smiling face.

She kept forgetting he'd taken a self-portrait of himself and set it as the picture that popped up when he called.

Pamela slid her finger across the screen to accept the call. She didn't bother saying anything, as the moment the ringing stopped, music blasted out so loud, she had to hold the phone away from her ear.

_"They say it's your birthday! It's my birthday too, yeah! They say it's your birthday! We're gonna have a good time! I'm glad it's your birthday! Happy birthday to you!"_

Pamela stared at the offending thing in her hand, squinting at the bright light it was issuing. It was loud and blinding.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Tom's voice shouted as the music faded into the background.

"Huh?" Pamela asked, still staring at the phone as the light finally went off. The room was plunged into darkness once more. She put the phone to her ear and repeated, "Huh?"

"Pamela, dove, it's your birthday!"

"It is?"

Tom was silent for a long beat, then slowly said, "Yes, unless Door told me the date fallaciously."

"What's the date?"

Tom sighed good naturally. "It's the eighteenth of June."

"Oh. It is my birthday."

Tom laughed. "How'd you forget your own birthday?"

"I usually do," Pamela admitted. "I mean, I wonder why I'm getting cards an influx of mail, but then I see the cards and realize it's that time of year. Haven't gotten any cards because all my mail's going to my mom's."

"Your parents don't phone you on the actual date?"

"Uh, no. They usually call around the date, but due to my job, I'm kind of hard to get a hold of sometimes," Pamela admitted, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. "My mom called me yesterday. I guess that was why…"

"How can you not make a big deal about this?" Tom asked, sounding incredulous. "How old are you?"

"I don't know…twenty-eight? I was born in 1985."

"Yes, you're twenty-eight. A young 'un."

"Door freaked out when she turned twenty-eight. Actually, Door's been freaking out about how old she is since she turned twenty-five."

"Oh, being in your thirties is marvelous," Tom trilled. "Didn't Door stop freaking out after that mile marker?"

"No. She's not thirty yet," Pamela said. "A fact she is all too happy to point out you've failed to realize."

"Oops."

"What time is it?"

"Oh, too _matutinus_ to call, but I had to phone a little early to catch you. Did you know you share the same birthday as Sir Paul McCartney?"

"No. I do?"

"You do! You do know who he is, do you not?"

"Uh…does he…sing or something?"

Tom groaned. "He's a Beatle!"

"He's a beetle?"

Pamela held back a giggle as Tom screeched, "Eek gawds! You have to know the greatest rock 'n' roll band of the twentieth century! The _Beatles_! John Lennon and Paul McCartney! 'Love Me Do!' 'A Hard Day's Night!' 'Yesterday!' 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band!' Ringo Star! George Harrison! Beatlemania!"

"Oh, those Beatles," Pamela laughed. Tom made a noise over the line that sounded like he was smacking his head against the wall. "Yes, I know who those Beatles are, Thomas. Was that a song of theirs you blasted at me?"

"Of course! You've got a surprise from me that will hopefully arrive at some point during the day," Tom said, excitement dripping in his voice.

"You didn't order me flowers, did you?"

"No. Why would I do that?" Tom inquired, sounding affronted. "You're not a flower girl, dear dove. But, you'll love what I did get you. I hope. If you don't, let me know and I'll get something else."

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

"If it isn't everything you dreamed of, please tell me, okay?"

"Fine."

"I must dash. Have a lovely day and eat pudding. Lots and lots of pudding."

Pamela laughed. "Sure, Thomas."

"Pudding," he ordered.

"I'll try to find some," Pamela relented.

"Pictures or it didn't happen."

* * *

Pamela arrived back at the hotel and climbed the stairs up to her room with her HEB single slice of cake she'd gotten to fill Tom's request she eat pudding (she had learned that didn't mean _pudding_ but all kinds of desserts in British). Upon entering her room, Pamela noticed the phone on the desk flashing red, meaning someone had left a message.

"Who'd leave a message here?" Pamela asked the empty room.

Picking the phone up, she listened to the message, and felt a little confused. While her family and Door knew the hotel she was staying at, she didn't imagine anyone would send her a package. No one had mailed her anything on her birthday since she entered the Air Force. Most years she got online vouchers or donations made to charities in her name (her mom was big on that). She got the occasional card, but any cards mailed this year would be forwarded to her mom's house in Colorado Springs.

Pamela arrived back in her room five minutes later holding a small box that looked like it'd gone through hell and back. Sitting down on the couch, she realized the box had originated in the UK and immediately knew this was the surprise Tom had alluded to earlier. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she cut the tape on the top and peered inside. There was a black, square, rather bulky box and a card. Pamela took the card out and read:

_Pamela,_

_'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women are merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts…' - William Shakespeare, 'All the World's a Stage'_

_'Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love.' -Hamlet, Act II, Scene II_

_'Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.' - Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene III_

_Love,_

_Tom X_

_PS. You better have pudding. _

Smiling, Pamela set the card down and picked up the other container. She turned it over in her hands till realizing it opened like a jewelry box. Flipping it open, Pamela found a watch. Her eyes went wide as she studied the silver, metal watch while wondering where on Earth he'd found such a perfect watch. It was a combination of digital and analog, function and beauty. Pamela had never heard of the brand, but by the feel of the object (and the box it came in), it was expensive. It wasn't bulky, ugly or made for a man like the cheap watches Pamela had been buying since becoming a pilot. While she doubted she could run to Walmart to replace this one like the one currently on her wrist, this watch…she loved it.

Pamela ran her fingers over the entire watch and discovered it was engraved on the back. Flipping the watch over, Pamela was greeted by an image. It looked like a pair of wings behind a comedy and tragedy mask. The wings looked like the wings that appeared on Pamela's name tag— a symbol of her pilot status.

Turning the watch back over, she unstrapped the old one, tossed it out, and put the new one on. Smiling as she stared at her wrist, she figured she'd have to do research to understand out the meaning of the image on the back of the watch as well as the quotes Tom had chosen for his note. Pamela had never excelled in decoding Shakespeare.

An hour later she had the following:

1. Tom's an actor. He plays parts.

2. Don't doubt Tom's feelings. They are true.

3. They'd meet again. Duh.

The symbol on the back (after consulting with Door) was Tom's answer to the pilot sweetheart bracelet Door used to wear. (Door explained Tom had been somewhat fascinated by the bracelet.) Given to sweethearts by their pilot boyfriends during World War Two, the bracelets had a charm with wings and propellors. Tom had removed the propellor from the image and placed his own profession's symbol: the comedy and tragedy masks.

Pamela was a pilot and an actor's sweetheart.

She was also currently a puddle of mush.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Luke looked dubious.

"Are you serious?"

"No. I'm Tom."

"Tom."

"Luke."

"Did Benedict ask you to do this?"

"No."

"Door didn't ask you to do this either?"

"No. What's the problem?"

"The problem is you're busy," Luke reiterated for the millionth time. "You've got places to go, things to rehearse and…and…and…"

"No time to do something nice for my friends?"

Luke beat his head with his tablet for a moment.

"If you don't want to help me, I'll just use my own camera skills," Tom said, turning around to leave the office.

"I can't find someone who will work for free," Luke said, sounding tired. "How can you not find someone yourself is beyond me— you have to know a photographer."

"I know of several. I've worked with them. I want someone unknown, someone who needs a break, yet has talent. And yes, will work for free as I don't know how Door and Ben would react if I gifted them with a full photo shoot with some big time photographer. Plus, I'd like to give someone a break."

Luke sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "Fine. You want an art student?"

"Sure. I don't honestly care."

Luke made a few noises of frustration, hit himself again with his tablet, then sighed deeply as if he was giving up. "Ask Cameron."

"Pardon?"

"Cameron. The PA you have that you never see?"

Tom nodded. "I know who Cameron is, Luke."

"Good. Since you never see him, you might forget he's younger than you and might know the sort of person you're looking for. Now, go. Work. Be you."

"I'm always myself, Luke."

"I know. Go bother someone else."

"I don't bother you."

"No. That's the problem. I do have other clients. Do you have a suit for _Much Ado_?"

"Yes, Luke. Am I going alone?"

"Yes. Unless Pamela materializes," Luke grumbled, flicking his fingers across the tablet. He glanced up to find Tom still standing in his office and said, "Other clients."

"It's a sin I'm not your only client," Tom teased, turning to go to the door. "Are we still allowed to dine together tomorrow night?"

"Yes, Tom. I'll see you at seven."

"Cheerio!"

Tom exited the office, pulling out his mobile. He dialed and waited for Cameron to pick up.

* * *

"This is it?"

"Well, yeah. You said you wanted an art student who needed a break," Cameron said, looking perplexed when they met outside a cafe in North London.

It was somewhat chilly for early June, yet there were still people seated outside even though Tom had chosen to wear his jacket. He felt almost over dressed next to the people in short sleeves sitting outside the cafe— especially since he was also wearing a jumper.

He was oddly cold today.

"That's the work I've got," Cameron said.

Tom studied the few photos Cameron had handed over. "It is fashion based I guess…"

"Can I have that?"

"What?"

"I'm starved," Cameron said, eyeing the takeout container in Tom's arms.

Tom had been at the cafe reading a script before Cameron had texted saying he was in the area and had the photos for Tom to look over. Upon spotting Cameron, Tom had gotten the remaining portion of his breakfast put into a take away container.

"Sure. Here."

"Thank you," Cameron gushed, then glanced over Tom's shoulder. "Pap at your six."

"I know. I saw him when I came outside," Tom admitted. "I gave him broody face."

Cameron chuckled, eyeing the pastry in the box with hungry eyes.

"These are quite nice," Tom said, stuffing the photos into the script he had with him.

"You gonna use her?" Cameron asked, looking hopeful.

"I believe so," Tom said. "I can keep the shots, right?"

Cameron nodded. "I wrote her contact info on the back. I mentioned you were looking so if she didn't make the cut, I asked her to have some suggestions."

Tom made a surprised face. "Oh."

"She and her group tend to stick together and help one another out," Cameron explained. "So, I'll talk to you later. Let me know when you want to do this thing, so no one can schedule you for anything else."

"Yes, yes. I know," Tom said, nodding his head. "I still must find people to model the girly bags. I've been seen one too many times with a hideous purse already."

"Oh, yes, I remember you and the orange thing," Cameron laughed. "Wait…that bag was designed by Benedict's friend, right?"

Tom nodded.

"And you need the photographer for her…new line?"

"Yes. She's moving passed orange bags," Tom assured Cameron.

Cameron shook his head, said his goodbyes and waved with the hand holding his juice bottle as he walked off. Tom rearranged the script in his arms and headed across the street, putting on his brooding, deep thinking face for the photographer hanging out across the street.

Inside, he was giggling up a storm.

* * *

"I feel as if I turned into Ben," Tom announced two weeks later.

"Why?"

"I'm busy. Constantly. And much of it is my own making," Tom sighed.

Pamela quirked an eyebrow at him over Skype, resting her head in her hand. Tom took note of the freckles that sprinkled across her nose that were getting denser and darker as she spent more time out in the sun. She often sat under a light fixture and between the light from her laptop and the lamp, she usually appeared slightly washed out, but tonight, the light was at a different angle— or she was in a different room.

"Where are you, cinnamon?"

"Huh? Oh," Pamela said. "I'm sitting at the bar in the kitchen. See."

She moved and showed him the lounge behind her.

"I was eating when you called, so I just moved the laptop. It's not plugged in either, so the screen is dimmer," she explained, seeming to know why he had noticed in the first place.

"You've got freckles," Tom said, grinning at her.

She groaned, covering her nose. "I know. They come out in droves in the summer. You should see me after a few days in the desert."

Tom grinned at the thought of the freckles across the bridge of her nose after the desert sun forced them to show themselves.

"I'm too old for freckles," she moaned into her hands.

"You're never too old for freckles," Tom tried to convince her.

"Says you. I need to remember to put sunscreen on. Sitting in the T-6 on the runway….I'm still surprised I've got freckles. The mask should prevent them," she remarked, removing her hand from her face. "So, besides checking my nose out and being super busy, what's going on?"

"Well, I think I got everything set up to shoot a few shots for Ben and Door," Tom casually said. "I found a photographer looking for a break. After asking around, I finally found someone besides my sister who isn't horridly busy to help me out and be a girl."

Pamela quirked her eyebrow again.

"I can't model purses on my own," Tom insisted with a laugh. "I've got Lara for an hour."

"Well, there you go."

"Yeah. The trouble is scheduling the shoot between our schedules," Tom sighed.

"Have you spoken to Door?"

"Not much. Exchanged a few tweets," Tom said. "I think we're both rather busy. I've been trying to pin down Ben, but I think I missed him."

"No, he's there."

"Oh? And you know because?"

"Door's freak out over his outfit?" Pamela asked, looking bemused to why Tom didn't know this information.

"His outfit?"

"Yeah. He was wearing shorts, a scarf, rubber flip-flops, and a hat," Pamela said, looking perplexed as to why that bothered Door.

Frowning, Tom decided to look into the matter himself. He headed to Google, and within a few minutes he understood Door's pain.

"Yes, the scarf in the middle of the summer is a bit of an overkill. It's not that cold here," Tom observed, shaking his head at Ben the Fashion Disaster. "He really cannot dress himself sometimes."

"Says the man with the bright blue suit," Pamela muttered.

"Hey, I looked _good_ in that suit. Blue is my color."

"Of course, darling," Pamela drawled in a very good impression of Tom's accent. She laughed a round, full belly kind of laugh.

Tom adored that laugh.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

What was I thinking?

Don't answer that, because I already know the answer.

I wasn't thinking.

I don't think.

I gave it up.

Don't think. Whatever you do, don't think.

Wait, wasn't that _blink_ not _think_?

"Door, what on Earth are you doing?"

I look up from where I've been trying to streamline my purse making to find my mother standing in the doorway to the "workshop" as we've come to call it.

I should start a waiting list. Hermès had a waiting list for Birkin bags. I can have a waiting list, right?

"Uh, trying to streamline my sewing method?" I ask, wondering why she's asking me this. It was her idea.

I look up at her. She'd dressed in an ancient sweatshirt and carrying a blanket. It's not exactly hot out today, but we're both dressed for winter because the basement is cold, dank, and unfinished. We've got the only unfinished basement in DuPage County, I swear. Everyone fixes up their basements expect the Judocs. My dad tried to fix it up…then discovered he was allergic to drywall dust, so there ended the Mr Fix-It phase of his life. It also ended any hope of finishing the basement passed the few walls he managed before he quit. (He made himself a darkroom and wood shop, which he's never used. And who needs a darkroom these days any ways? Well, besides Ben, who knew what it was without me telling him and looked interested in the expired chemicals and all the crap that goes into the old fashion method of developing photos. I think he just likes old things…like that evil cappuccino machine he's got at his flat.)

"Did you fill the orders for today?" Mom asks, sitting down at the table across from me. (And by table I mean an old piece of plywood we had lying around that we put on top of these salvaged barrels my dad had in college that he used to make tables oddly enough. I've no idea where the tabletops he used went…)

(The crafting gene clearly runs in the family. On both sides.)

"Uh…"

She sighs deeply, looking at me like she used to when I did something wrong as a kid. Like the time she came upstairs and found me trapped under the ancient (and super duper heavy) dresser inherited from my great-grandma. (I was too short to reach the top drawer where my mom hid things, so I climbed up using the drawers— even though Mom told me not to as it'd fall on me, which it finally did one day.)

"Dorothea, fill the orders. You've got over fifty to get out TODAY and it's passed three," she says, sounding tried, though she doesn't look exhausted.

Not fair.

The website has been live for maybe three weeks? A month? I don't know. The first week was great. Mom and I were able to keep up with the business and everything was good. Then, yesterday…we exploded. Do you know why? Come on guess. GUESS. I'll give you a hint. He's tall, blond, blue eyed, and laughs kind of strangely.

If you guess Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, then you're right.

Yesterday, Tom tweeted a link to the website AND then (since he plotted with my DAD who is in charge of the web site) the photos he did with his sister and IRENE ADLER showed up all over the site and went viral. (Of course they did. Loki and Irene Adler? Seriously?)

And Ben didn't believe me that Tom was plotting.

"Tom is plotting," I said a few days (weeks, hours, I don't know) ago.

"Huh?"

"Tom. Is. Plotting."

"Isn't Tom always plotting? World domination? Enslaving the masses with charming smiles?"

"Benedict."

"Okay, that's the second time someone's said my name that way today. What gives?"

"Tom. Is. Plotting."

"Okay. Check. Tom is plotting. Why should I care what he is plotting…other than if it's to do something drastic…like marrying Pamela without telling her? That would be bad. Also, I suspect that would upset the fangirls."

"Tom is plotting," I reiterated. "He's been texting me quite a few questions today about purses. Why would he ask me so many questions about purses? Then he asked for my DAD'S cell phone number. Why does he want to talk to my Dad?"

"I don't know. Did you ask him why?"

"He said, 'Oh, don't worry, darling!' Which doesn't make me not worry! What is he doing?"

"I don't know. Is it September yet?"

"No, why?"

"I don't know. Isn't that a song?"

"No…there's one asking to wake me up when September ends. By Green Day," I said, wondering if Ben had hit his head recently. "Ben, you should be worried. Tom's got an army of fangirls."

"Don't I have an army of fangirls?"

"No, you've got a collective, or as they call themselves bitches."

Ben made the sputtering noise he usually makes whenever he's reminded about what his fans call themselves. Okay, sometimes he doesn't make a noise at all, just a face, but when I refer to his fans, he sputters.

"He's got his army of fangirls. If he says jump, THEY JUMP," I reminded him. "He's gonna tell them to JUMP soon, Benedict!"

Ben never really got on board on the panic wagon over Tom's plotting and today we are NOT friends because Tom's plot was revealed and now I'm gonna die. (Not that I don't appreciate his support and the whole fashiony photo shoot he did for free for us. I should have guessed he'd do something like this when I sent him a whole box of purses. It's my own fault, really. What did I think he was going to do with an entire box of purses? Simply hand them out to his friends and NOT try to help us out in a big way?)

(Honestly, the whole thing reeks of Tom Hiddleston, Mr Nice Guy.)

(Okay, I'm not mad at Tom. Or Ben. We're friends again.)

(Not that either one is aware we weren't friends today. I haven't spoken to either today.)

Tom Hiddleston's fangirls want Loki colored purses (also known as forest green with gold hardware). Or orange, as that is the color purse Tom's burdened with. (Yeah, I'm still turning out orange monstrosities…)

This two person operation is going to sink unless I really figure out how to streamline the operation.

Or hire someone.

Too bad Basil can't sew.

"Into the wood shop. Pack up the orders that have to go out today," Mom orders.

Each night, before going to bed, Mom prints out all the orders we've got in that day. (I'm so glad we put that it will take up to a week to ship out your handmade Benedict & Door purse. That's about how far behind we are.) Mom, because she's super organized, made me a board that has seven folders. Each night after she prints out the orders she moves them for me so all I gotta do is grab the GO OUT NOW folder and pack up the purses.

Thank god I stopped taking custom orders.

Let's see…I've got the shopping bag of glorious purpose (Pembroke - name of the college Tom attended and the only bag not named for a school either Ben or I attended because it's the bag from hell Tom made famous tweaked a bit (and I don't know why we decided to go with schools, it just seemed…I don't know…interesting)) Uh, let's see, I've got five Lokies (forrest green with gold hardware), three Tardises purses (deep blue with nickel hardware), ten Sherlocks (eggplant and nickel), eight Toms (horrid orange with nickel) and twelve in black with gold hardware.

The satchel/man bag (Harrow. The posh public school Ben went to)….two Lokies, one Sherlock, one in Thor (a deep red with silver hardware), six blacks and one in brown (burnt bronze hardware).

The carryall (Manchester- where Ben went to uni)…one brown.

Clutch (Hammerschmidt - where I attended grade school till ten and a big name for a small purse)…one Loki, one Sherlock, and three in brown.

The various sized totes (Ardmore - other elementary school I went to)….five regulars in blacks, three regular browns, one mini Loki, four mini and one regular Tardises, and four mini Thors.

And Cricket Heidi's famous box bottom purse (Kenai- the only purse to carry over from CHD and keep its original name because I didn't feel like renaming it. I also ran out of nifty named schools, as Jackson is BORING and I hate the Ditch. I'm not naming anything after the Ditch)….five Lokies, ten in brown, one in black and two in Tardises.

Why don't I have a clever name from brown and black?

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela hated Texas in the summer. It was hot, uncomfortable and humid. And she kept forgetting to put on sunscreen so now her nose was burt.

How this happened while under an oxygen mask was beyond her. There was honestly not much skin exposed while she was in the T-6, but somehow she was tan and now slightly burnt.

She did not understand.

"So, we're thinking of having a party this weekend."

Pamela looked up from where she was studying her PUBS in the flight room while creating a flight plan for her flight the next morning.

"Okay," she said slowly.

The guys in her class usually attempted to include her in their weekend plans, but the guys who were single were all fresh from pilot training and juvenile and everyone else was married. With the exception of Door, Pamela couldn't stand military wives. While she thought they were strong and usually lovely women, there was something about them that made her want to yank her hair out. And if they had kids…she wasn't sure what it was about them after they had children, but then she really couldn't stand to be around them and it wasn't because of the children.

Pamela thought part of her problem was she had nothing in common with the women— they were married, she was not. They had kids, she had none. She didn't even have a dog like Door. Pamela had pretty much nothing other than her career and none of the wives wanted to talk planes with her.

"That's nice," Pamela said, smiling at the guy whose name she failed at life remembering. She tired to get a look at his name tag, but his arm was blocking it at the moment.

"Just a get together, since we haven't had anyone over since we started. You didn't show up for that one, but what about this one?" the guy asked, looking pointedly at her as he moved so she could read his name tag: Todd Addams.

Thank god for name tags.

"Well, I don't have anything planned," Pamela admitted, trying to make it look as if she had not just read his name tag in order to remember who he was exactly (other than Curly, as he had very curly hair). "Is it at your house?"

"Yup. I'll text you the directions. My wife will be thrilled you're coming!"

Pamela gave an uncomfortable smile as Todd beamed as her before hurrying off to invite someone else.

* * *

"What was I thinking?"

"Don't think. Whatever you do, don't think," Door's voice sounded over the speaker phone as Pamela wound her way up a hill through McMansion central.

"How does he afford to live here? He's just…well, I don't remember his rank now that I think about it," Pamela admitted.

"He's the one training to be an instructor for the program you're in, right?"

"Yeah."

"Lieutenant Colonel," Door supplied.

"Oh. Yeah. I guess he could afford to live here in this fancy gated community," Pamela muttered. "I'm so lost."

"Of course you are," Door laughed. "Who was that chick with Tom at Wimbledon?"

"Huh?"

"There's some chick with long hair and sunglasses clutching his arm. The whole web thinks she's his girlfriend," Door explained. "But, I know better. So, who is she?"

"I don't know. He told me he was attending Wimbledon, but he didn't mention anyone. I didn't ask. Why are they saying he's his girlfriend? Wait, do they still think I'm you?"

Pamela was never going to be able to wrap her head around the fact Tom was famous and the world for some unknown reason thought she was Cricket Heidi. She had no idea how she had been labeled Cricket Heidi in the first place. One night, she'd done a Google search for Cricket Heidi and every, single image for Cricket Heidi that was not a purse had been photos of Pamela and Tom. (The ones from HEB, various ones from that MTV thing he'd dragged her to, and then some ones people snapped during their days in London.)

"Yeah! They do! They think you're a handbag designer who just opened up a label with Benedict Cumberbatch!" Door laughs. "Ben says we're going to have to do promo photos or something so people will know I am Cricket Heidi and not you."

"Yes, Tom's not dating you."

"No. Tom shouldn't be dating Cricket Heidi, because as far as the world knows she's still married," Door muttered.

Something crashed in the background.

"What was that?"

"Basil."

"Uh, okay.

"So, besides watching tennis and NOT carrying a Benedict & Door bag when we went out to dinner the other night with fellow B&D model Irene Adler, what's Hiddleston been up to?"

"He's been at Wimbledon and in rehearsals for that play he's doing this winter. We've been having trouble catching one another between his schedule and mine," Pamela admitted sadly. "What was I thinking?"

She pulled over to the side of the road and rammed her head into the steering wheel a few times.

"That you can't get enough of his baby blues?" Door asked. "Or you wish he'd grow his hair out so it'd be _Wallander_ curly again?"

"What? No. I meant…"

The party.

Tom.

Her life.

All the above.

"I'm not sure what you're thinking most days as I'm liable to be sectioned soon," Door said, then gave off an insane sounding giggle. "But, seriously, are you having relationship issues?"

"No. I just…"

"Miss him?"

Pamela made a face and said grudgingly, "Yes."

Door sighed. "Get used to it, honey. Between your military life and his as an actor, you're hardly going to see one another. Even if you get married."

Pamela's gut twisted at the word _married_. It was WAY too early to be thinking about that. Especially while she was parked on the side of some unnamed, twisted road in the hills of San Antonio lost in a world of beige, almost identical houses.

"So, when are you done?"

"With what?"

"IP training."

"Uh…September? Though, if things keep going as they are, I'll be done almost a month before I have to report to Vance," Pamela admitted.

"So, where will Mr Hiddleston be in August?"

"I don't know."

"Ask. Then, book your ticket, tell the Air Force to suck it, and go see your lovely boyfriend," Door said as if it was that easy.

"Am I allowed to travel internationally?"

"Uh…I don't know. Why not? You put in for some leave and call it a day, right? Jason was planning to use up his leave if he finished early," Door said as something else crashed in the background. "BASIL! STOP THAT."

"What is she doing?"

"There's a fox who lives out behind my parents house. She's waiting for him to make his nightly stalk through," Door grumbled. "I think she's trying to tell him to hurry up by knocking over the planter."

"Uh, okay."

"Weren't you going to a party?"

"Yeah. I'm lost, remember?"

"Aren't we all, Pamela, aren't we all?"

* * *

"So, who is that woman?"

Pamela blinked.

She'd finally made to the Addams' house and was currently under siege by a collective of Air Force wives who all wanted the skinny on Tom Hiddleston.

"No clue," Pamela admitted. "I honestly have no idea."

"So you don't know her?"

One of the women shoved a cell phone into Pamela's face. She pulled it back and stared at the photos of Tom sitting in the crowd at the tennis match. She stared, thinking he was a tad over dressed for a sporting event in a vest, tie, and long sleeved, collared shirt. It had to be warm, as he'd rolled up his sleeves. But then, everyone around him was wearing button downs and jackets.

British people were strange.

"Well?" the woman pressed.

"Oh, uh," Pamela looked at the woman who had her arm linked through Tom's and was laughing while Tom made a strange face. "No clue."

She handed back the phone.

"You're not bothered?" the woman shirked.

Pamela shook her head. "Should I be?"

"They're saying he's her girlfriend!"

"They said the same thing when he went to dinner with Lara Pulver," someone else piped up.

"They also said Pamela's named Cricket Heidi."

"Isn't she the one who started that handbag line with Benedict Cumberbatch?"

"Oh yeah! Those handbags are adorbs!"

"Totally."

"Have you seen how much she wants for them, though?"

"She makes them by hand," Pamela quickly added.

"How do you know?"

"Uh, I know her?" Pamela asked.

"You do?" they all asked her looking at her in a new light.

Oh, frack.

"Do you have one?"

"I have one of her old bags," Pamela admitted. "It's orange."

"OMG! You have the Tom bag?"

"Uh, sure."

"Cricket Heidi's husband is in the military," someone pipped up. "I read her blog. Like all of it."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Though, I don't think they're together, as she lives in Chicago now. She was just in San Antonio and I think her husband was going through PIT. I seriously want to know who she really is," one said, looking at Pamela.

Pamela gave an uncomfortable smile.

"OH!"

Everyone stared at the woman who'd just shirked.

"What, Christa?"

"I just found an article about the status of Tom's girlfriend!" Christa exclaimed, looking a little smug. "Doesn't give Pamela's name, but it points out that the woman is an Air Force pilot. Well, if the woman in the white dress she met at the MTV Movie Awards who was Tom's guest is his actual girlfriend. You went to the MTV Movie Awards?"

Pamela nodded and chaos broke out.

* * *

"Remind me to never go to another function that contains Air Force wives. Or any form of women, actually," Pamela groaned the next morning over Skype to Tom.

He looked confused. "Why, darling dove?"

"All night…Tom this, Tom that. They asked the same questions over and over. They don't understand why I keep letting the press call me Cricket Heidi. They want to know who Cricket Heidi actually is and oh my god, shoot me."

Pamela let her head drop onto the table. Tom chuckled.

"I could correct them."

"Don't bother. The woman I sat next to at the MTV thing wrote a story about how I'm not Cricket Heidi, but she didn't give my name because I'm in the military."

"Luke sent that to me," Tom said, picking up his cell phone off screen as Pamela lifted her head up. "I've yet to read it."

"It was…nice of her not to give my name. I can't remember if I did give her my name or not, but I did mention I was there because of you," Pamela said. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken for Cricket forever. Especially after she went into business with Benedict, hence the story by the reporter."

Tom hummed his agreement, eyes reading something on his phone.

"Door's all bent out of shape Benedict's going to do something called _Top Gear_ and she's not over there to go along," Pamela went on and Tom hummed again, shaking his head. "Who was that woman you were with at Wimbeldon? If I am asked one more time and don't have an answer…"

"Oh. Jane. We're just friends," Tom said, setting the phone down. "I know everyone is saying we're dating. I'm sorry."

"Why? I don't care as long as you're not actually dating and since I've decided to never associate with another female who is not Door, I doubt it'll be a problem in the future."

"Really? You're going to become a hermit?"

"No. Hermits don't go to work," Pamela said. "I plan to continue to go to work and socialize with the other pilots, most of whom are male and don't care about you."

Tom pouted. "Why would they not care about me?"

Pamela rolled her eyes.

"So, who won Wimbeldon?"

Tom launched into an excited tale about some guy named Andy.


	16. Loki Burdens Mortal with Purse

**_Loki of Asgard Burdens Mortal with Glorious Purse_**

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I'm on a plane.

I'm on a muthafracking plane!

And this time I will not be taking any sort of medication, as I'm only going to San Diego, so I ought to be totally with it when we land. There will be no declarations that I'm on a mission from God a-la _Blues Brother's._

Should I be on this plane bound for San Diego?

No. I should be remaining at home, locked in the basement sewing and packing purses, and cursing Tom Hiddleston.

But, my mom produced an intern.

"This is Bethany," she announced last week, pointing to a girl with bright purple hair, orange eyes and a pink thing stuck in her nose.

I stared at my mother and wondered if she'd decided to take up smoking weed or something. Dropped some acid. Got a hold of those sleeping pills that make you see green bunnies or sleep drive. (In her case, sleep hire an intern with orange eyes.)

(They were seriously orange. Like fugly purse orange. They MATCHED.)

(I wonder if she did that to get the job? Maybe that's why my mom actually hired her? Because she's already committed to suffering through the orange disaster that is Benedict & Door's famous Tom Hiddleston color.)

"Okay," I said slowly, eyeing my mom and the kid over the sewing machine.

I figured I could stab either with the scissors if either turned out to actually be an alien or something. I have really wicked fabric scissors.

"She's going to be our intern for the rest of the summer. I taught her how to sew when I used to teach lessons," my mother continued, beaming at me.

(My dad told my mom she needed a job when I graduated from college. So, instead of finding some sort of dead end retail job, as she'd been out of the job market since 1983, she decided to teach sewing lessons. Guess what? No one wants sewing lessons in this day and age. Well, okay, she had like four students. I wasn't really paying attention. I was starting my first big person job, dating Jason who was still at college, and all around freaking out about life in general.)

(What's changed, really?)

(Well, other than the having a desk job and dating Jason.)

(Okay, a lot has changed. I know BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH. And I have a dog. I never thought I'd have a dog. I was terrified of them as a kid.)

(Mostly because everyone had big dogs and they always, always knocked me over as a greeting when I showed up at friend's abodes. Basil's never knocked me over. She's tripped me because she's a STEALTH dog sometimes, but she's never greeted me by ramming her head into my crouch or jumping on me. Usually, she ignores my existence.)

(Dumb dog.)

"She's studying fashion design at IADT," Mom went on, still beaming.

She said it like I knew what the hell IADT was (I looked it up later. It stands for International Academy of Design and Technology).

"She's going to be helping me out while you're gone."

"Where am I going?"

As far as I knew, at that point, I wasn't going anywhere. There was no where for me to go.

"You're going to go to San Diego," Mom said, wearing a pavonine expression.

So, here I am. On a plane. Going to San Diego.

Do I know why I'm going to San Diego?

No, not really.

Someone who studied with me in London lives in San Diego, but I haven't talked to her in years and as far as I know my mother didn't contact her to remind her I exist. The only other thing I know about San Diego is that Comic-Con takes place there every summer and it's a thing (according to _The OC. _Yeah, Seth Cohen told me about Comic-Con. Then didn't show me what it exactly was, because they didn't actually go.)

So, since I doubt my mother contacted my long lost neighbor (she had the room across the hall from me), I think I might be going to Comic-Con. Also, the fact this plane is filled with people dressed up as comic book and movie characters kind of give it away. Someone was trying to shove an Iron Man head into the overhead bin for crying out loud.

Now, the big question is: why did my mother go out of her way to assure I could go to Comic-Con of all things?

* * *

I hate flights to California from Chicago. They aren't long enough to sleep, yet they are long enough to give you jet lag. To make the whole jet lag even more supertastic, I got beaned in the head with Thor's hammer.

Seriously.

Thor's hammer fell out of the overhead bin and clocked me in the nose. (HA HA HA HA! I felt the thunder in my nose, just like Tom!)

I'm amazed my nose is in once piece, if I'm honest. The person who owned this stupid prop apologized profusely, but I didn't really care.

I got beaned with Thor's hammer.

Next thing you know, Loki's stupid antler helmet is going try to poke my eye out.

I elbow my way through the terminal trying to ignore my throbbing noise. I open my purse and search for the piece of paper my mother wrote the details to the hotel she booked me into. As I'm trying to find what I need, someone runs into me and I almost go flying to meet the ground with my face.

This is so my day!

A guy wearing a full out _Star Wars_ costume just tried to run me over. Why the hell is he wearing his costume's helmet? I mean I've seen lots of strangely dressed people, but this guy is totally over the top. And—

"Sorry!" says a British accent. "Didn't see you. Quite difficult to see clearly."

"Uh, yeah," I mutter, rolling my shoulder and looking up at the guy.

Seriously, he's tall. Like could be playing basketball tall.

"Cricket?"

There's another British voice. I turn around to turn. Oh, this is interesting. Mark Gatiss standing behind me.

"It's Mark?" he asks, eyeing the tall…Bobba Fett? I think it's the guy who is hunting the heros and has the ship that flies at a ninety degree angle. (_Stars Wars_ is a great movie, but it's not exactly my thing. I've seen it, multiple times, but I'm not versed in it like I'm versed in say…Tom Hiddleston movies_._)

"I know! Sorry! Uh, I'm….Cricket, yes" I finish lamely.

I'd like to have my eye poked out by Loki's helmet now, please. Mark Gatiss knows who I am, why on Earth did I just confirm who I am to him?

Mark smiles, looking over at the tall _Star Wars _man. Who, for some reason, is still loitering next to me. I didn't manage to fall to the ground, so I'm not sure why he's still standing here. He seemed to be in a rush.

"There's that guy from first class," I over hear someone say as they pass us, both eyeing _Star Wars_ man.

"He's with Mark Gatiss!" someone else says.

Bobba Fett looks like he'd like to crawl into a hole. Not sure how I can tell this as I cannot see his face, but something about him screams GET ME TO A HOLE STAT.

"Well, sorry for running into you, but I must dash," Bobba Fett says, for some unknown reason hugging me.

And it doesn't feel as strange as it should.

He's gone before I can figure it out, leaving me with Mark Gatiss, who informs me he was sent by Ben, who was told by my mother to send me to SD.

"Did you know him?" Mark asks, staring in the direction Bobba Fett is still attempting to exit the airport.

"Uh, no. I don't think so," I say, distracted.

Ben's behind this whole Send Door to Comic-Con.

"He seemed to know you," Mark points out.

"Everyone seems to think they know me till they know me," I announce.

Okay. That made no sense. Thor's hammer must have hit me harder than I thought.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom hurried through the airport, shaking his head at his luck. Of course he'd almost knock Door over while wearing a Jango Fett costume, helmet and all. (It was the only costume the shop had that fit him height wise.) No one was supposed to know he was at Comic-Con early, yet he'd forgot to use the bland American accent he'd been using since he'd gotten on the plane (after going through security in his own clothing and as himself) in his shock at seeing Door in San Diego.

What was she doing here?

He grabbed a cab and took it to the hotel (still wearing the helmet) and arrived in his room without further incident. Upon locking the door, he removed the helmet for the first time since he'd donned it back in London and let out a sigh of relief. He sucked in fresh air for about a minute before he grabbed his cell phone. He smiled at the sight of the name on his call list and tapped it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, cinnamon."

"Hey. So, did you make it?"

"Yes," Tom said, shedding other pieces of the costume. "I flew the whole way in a Jango Fett costume."

"Ah."

"You've no idea who that is, do you?"

"Nope. Sorry."

Tom smiled, then remembered why he'd called Pamela— other than to speak to her. He always wanted to speak with her. He'd discovered himself reaching for his phone more often since Pamela had entered his life and often he had to remind himself of the time difference and she'd likely not answer due to her job.

Tom currently was a rather large fan of texting, but she was only two time zones in front of him instead of six behind, so he decided he'd rather hear her voice than simply await her text.

"Did I insult you because I don't know who Django is?"

"Django? Where did you come up with that, dove?"

"Isn't that what you said?"

"Jango Fett."

"Oops, well, you know…"

"Oh, I do know. It's no matter. Guess who I collided with at the airport?"

"I don't know? Benedict? The Hobbit guy?"

Tom laughed. "The Hobbit guy?"

"Yeah, he's on _Sherlock_ with Benedict. He looks kind of like a Hobbit."

"You know what a Hobbit is, darling?"

"Yes. I've read the books. And I know they made those movies at some point," Pamela admitted. "The guy looked like a Hobbit."

"Well, he does play one," Tom laughed. "He is Bilbo Baggins in _The Hobbit._"

"Seriously? He's a real Hobbit?"

"I'm pretty sure he's an actual human being."

"Oh, you know what I meant," Pamela huffed. "So, if not those people, who?"

"Door."

"What?"

"Door and Mark Gatiss."

"What is Door doing at the San Diego airport?"

"No clue, but Mark seemed to be picking her up."

"Huh. I don't know. I wasn't aware of Comic-Con's existence till you announced you were going," Pamela confessed.

Tom smiled, flopping down on the couch. "Of course you weren't, darling dove."

"You really ran into Door?"

"Yes. I don't think flying agrees with her," Tom said, kicking off his shoes. "She was quite out of it. Also, I think she broke her nose."

"What?"

"Well, it appeared as if she's been smashed in the face," Tom admitted, remembering the way Door's eyes were kind of bruised looking and her nose was rather red. "She also looked at me as if she as quite wrathful when I accidentally collided with her. Then appeared baffled when Mark materialized."

"She's always confused," Pamela reminded Tom. "Especially the past month or so. I'm pretty sure if you asked her, she'd not be able to tell you the date or month. She might know the year."

Tom hummed. "I would agree with that. She looked as if she'd crash landed on an alien planet."

"Maybe she did," Pamela laughed. "I can imagine the kind of people who attend this thing. I mean, you were dressed in some sort of costume that hid your identity."

Tom blinked a few time, then burst out laughing. It took him awhile to get ahold of himself enough to continue speaking. "Oh my. I never thought about that…the airport was filled with people already dressed in costumes and there was poor Door…looking all conventional and flummoxed."

"Exactly. Now, you said Mark was there?"

"Yes. He seemed to be picking her up," Tom repeated. "I wasn't aware she'd struck up a friendship with him."

"I don't know anymore who she knows and who she doesn't. But, if Benedict asked him…"

"She might be on good terms with Mark. She did spend quite a bit of time on the set of _Sherlock_ whilst she was visiting Ben," Tom reminded Pamela.

"True that, true that."

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

This is so bizarre.

First, my mother puts me on a plane to Cali.

Second, I feel the thunder in my nose thanks to a fake Mjolnir.

Third, some overly tall guy runs me over in the airport dressed as somebody from _Star Wars_.

Fourth, Mark Gatiss (!) picks me up from the airport and dumps me at a hotel that is a lot fancier than anything my mother would book me. (Granted, she didn't, hence…)

Fifth, I find out Ben is behind all of this. He got me passes to a billion things— panels, showings, and other things that I wasn't even aware one could do at a convention.

So, since I could basically go to whatever I wanted, I went to the Marvel panel tonight and what happened?

Oh, I got to see the new trailer for the new _Thor_ movie, sure, but do you know what else happened?

Thomas Muthafracking Hiddleston happened.

If any star were to show up dressed as his character, it would have to be Thomas Muthafracking Hiddleston.

OF COURSE!

What else would he dress up as? A Storm Trooper?

And I think he completely killed half the audience and made the other have mentally unbalanced.

And somewhat violent as I've gotten another freaking hammer to the face.

At least this time it wasn't in the nose. I don't need my right eye, seriously.

Muthafracking Hiddleston.

At least the trailer was good.

"DOOR!"

If this person shouting my name sounding all Tom-Hiddleston-like isn't actually him, I'm going to become lachrymose. All out water works right here in the mists of Comic-Con overrun by Loki's Army.

I turn around and find myself faced with Loki wearing Tom's face. (Loki would NEVER smile like that.)

(At least he's not wearing his helmet, as he'd poke my eye out.)

"I was hoping you had a back stage pass!"

I nod dumbly. "Yeah. Ben tricked me out."

I don't even know how I got backstage other than I followed some signs, flashed the badges, and whala! Here I am. Backstage. No one seemed to care I was wondering around aimlessly either.

"Ah! I was wondering what you were doing here," Tom says, holding his hands behind his back and falling in Loki Stance. "Are you free? What happened to your face?"

"Free?"

"There's a gathering. You can meet a few more people," Tom offers. "What happened to your face?"

I stare at him blankly. "This is wrong on too many levels."

I can't go to a gathering. There'll be famous people there. I don't do well around well-known people.

Or people in general, it seems. I got on a plane and felt the thunder in my nose. I went to a panel, got the thunder in my eye.

"Dorothea, what happened to your face?"

"THOR'S MUTHAFRACKING HAMMER!"

Tom stares at me, gobsmacked. "Someone struck you with a hammer?"

"Not on purpose. I just…keep getting…pushed around, knocked over, and hammered."

"You're hammered?

I start and turn around to find myself faced with Chris Evans and Scarlet Johansson.

Man, he looks odd in person.

That is bad, Door. You don't tell someone they look strange in person. Actually, if I am honest, he looks bizarre in any other role I've seen him in other than Captain America. There is just something…off about him when he's not Captain America.

At least he's lost the beard.

"Even though I saw you like this for months when we filmed the movie, it's still strange," Chris is saying as he slings his arm around Tom's shoulder. It seems the conversation moved on while I stared. Chris looks at me. "So, you're hammered?"

I'm so glad I did something with my hair. And decided to put my contacts in and not wear my dorky glasses.

I almost wore the glasses. Because they are totally Clark Kent.

Only I don't look as good as Clark Kent in them. I look like a dork.

"I got hammered. With an actual hammer," I correct, making a gesture to my face. "Multiple times."

Great. I've got a black eye (or eyes, I'm not sure).

"Chris, Scarlett, this is Door," Tom says. "Or Cricket. She has clearly been hammered in the face, and is not drunk."

Chris looks massively confused, cocking his head to the side and giving Tom a look. "I thought that girl at the MTV awards was Cricket."

"I'm Cricket Heidi," I announce, sticking out my hand. "Or Door."

Scarlett appears to think I'm mentally insane. Little does she know that she's hit the bullseye. I am insane. At least I look the part with my tricked out hammered face.

Chris shakes my hand, while keeping hold of Tom.

Yeah, he will protect you from the crazy person named after an insect and a thing used to keep people out. (Door, thing used to keep the crazy people out. LOL.)

"I'm not Pamela, nor am I dating him," I clarify. "Mostly because I think Pamela would kill me and have you seen him?"

"Most of the world's seen him," Scarlett intones dryly.

"And I think they'd date him," Chris adds.

I let out an annoyed noise and Tom grins, knowing what I'm going to say next.

"I just like him for his acting!" I burst out, flapping my hands around. "Just his acting! Yeah, I know he's not ugly, but I don't choose based on looks!"

"And Pamela does?" Tom inquires.

"She liked you for your _Wallander _hair! Or she did. I'm guessing since she spent an entire day with you not knowing you were _Wallander_ Hair Boy, she likes you for more than your hair."

Chris and Scarlett look completely lost.

Oh, yeah, baby, I know how to make a good first impression. Remember that time I met Benedict Cumberbatch covered in sweat and grass stains and my dog barked at him? Oh, and remember the first time I met Tom Hiddleston and I had bed head and more than likely pillow creases on my face?

I am not meant to meet famous people.

"I am not friends with any thing that resembles Thor's hammer. It loathes me. No matter who owns it," I rant, gesturing wildly at my face. "And, heck, I'm not friends with Basil either! This is all her fault! If she had just stayed where I fracking put her, then I'd never gotten bludgeoned in the nose, almost lost my right eye, and I wouldn't be making a spastic lummox of myself in front of prominent personages. It's become a praxis!"

"What is she talking about?" Chris stage whispers to Tom.

Tom grins, looking at Chris out of the corner of his eye. "I've no idea. That's the lovely thing about Door. You never know what she might start babbling about or what words she'll select."

"This is it! I am never meeting famous people again! I am not friends with Ben. This is his peccadillo. No, I was right before, it's really Basil's misdeed. If she hadn't decided she wanted to emancipate herself and go running at him across the field, I'd never met him, I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be up to my ears in ugly, horrid, orange purses. SERIOUSLY, do you know how many of those things I've seen today?"

"You made those things?" Scarlett asks.

"YES! Every blasted one!"

I loose control and grab at my hair.

"Did you know I made that one Tom had as a test bag? It wasn't meant for mass production! Cretinous! How was I to know Pamela take it on her big European adventure and hand it off to Tom Hiddleston! If I'd known she'd do that, I'd never given it to her and I'd done what I usually do with test bags gone wrong!"

"Bin them?" Tom sweetly offers.

"YEAH!"

Everyone is staring at me. Not just Chris and Scarlett. Anyone within earshot is staring at me.

I need a hole. Stat.

"Ah, Cricket," another British voice says from behind me. "I see you've made some friends."

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far," I mutter. "Take me away before I make more dontopedalogy remarks."

Mark quirks an eyebrow but doesn't whisk me away. Instead he starts talking to Tom and company while I hide behind him. I've no clue what the hell he's doing here at the Marvel shindig, but at the moment I don't care.

I kind of like Scarlett's dress. I wonder…no. I'd never be able to afford it. The nicest dress I own is from White House Black Market and I got it off eBay (mostly because it went on sale and the store only had size zero, which I could get zipped up— shockingly— all the way till my boobs. I don't have huge boobs, either. Nor have I worn a size zero since I was in high school, but I got it zipped around my waist. That was so shocking, I almost bought it even though it didn't zip up all the way).

"Who is Basil?"

I start (again) to find Scarlett speaking to me and we're walking somewhere. When the hell did we start walking?

"My dog."

"You're dog is named Basil?"

"Yeah."

"And who is Ben?"

"Benedict Cumberbatch," I say, wondering why if she knew about the purses she didn't know that.

"Oh! I guess it makes sense then you know all the British people," she laughs. "So, you're the girl who opened up the handbag line with Cumberbatch?"

"Yeah. That's me. Guilty as charged."

"Why are you here?"

I give her a look and say, "I've got no idea. My mom put me on a plane, Mark picked me up at the airport, and Ben left me a video message telling me I deserve to have fun and a break. I think he must be mental, as so far…I've gotten a hammer in the nose, a hammer in the eye, run over by some overly tall guy on a Bobba Fett costume, and I don't deal well with jet lag."

"Is that it?" she inquires as someone hands her a black bag of some sort. She opens it and starts walking backwards in front of me, shifting through the bag.

"I don't know. Where are we going?"

"The party. There's a carpet we gotta walk down," Scarlett says, holding bottles of makeup to my face. "Wow, you're pale. You a natural redhead?"

I can hear the cameras.

I nod and look for the hallway or walkway for us non-famous people but can't seem to find one.

I know they have them. Pamela used it when she went to the MTV Movie Awards. I watched the whole thing (first time since high school) and I never SAW her. (And then I re-watched it, and still didn't see her, so as far as I know she wasn't there.)

(I know she was there. Later pictures surfaced, and why would she lie about going? She totally freaked out.)

(Ah, those were the days…)

"Here, stand here and I'll fix your face as soon as I find some white," Scarlett mutters, steering me out of the stream of people heading towards the cameras.

No. I am vacating. I am not going to be painted white.

God, that's sad. She doesn't even have a shade foundation pale enough in that big ole bag of tricks someone handed her.

I am a vampire.

Who is vacating. Now.

"Darling, where are you going?" Tom grabs me by the arm and hauls me over to the side where Scarlett wanted me to begin with. She had clearly found what she wanted, as she's standing at the ready to attack me with a makeup brush. She attacks my face, lightly dapping at the areas that are likely purple, green, black, blue and whatever other colors one gets when happenstance they get hammered multiples times.

I'm not sure why she's doing this other than to save me from later embarrassment in explaining why I look like I got beat up.

I did get beat up.

By a hammer.

"Where did Mark go?"

"He had a phone call," Tom says, turning away from me to address Scarlett. "Thank you for doing this. I doubt she wants to continue telling everyone she got hammered."

"Well, she could just say was punched. Or not phrase it as she's got hammered," Scarlett suggests.

"But, I did get hammered. Twice! Or three times. I can't remember. I'm still amazed I haven't gotten a horn to the eye."

"Loki's horned helmet?" Scarlett asked.

"Exactly! Got hammered, now just need to get horned."

Scarlet burst out laughing, followed by Tom. Hey, at least I'm amusing!

Scarlett finishes with my face, adds some blush, lipstick and then smooths my hair down. (It's likely going bonkers from the humidity and stuff, not to mention my earlier tugging.)

"She good to go?" Chris inquires.

"Yes, I think so. Doubt anyone will see. This is good stuff," Scarlett says as a mysterious person whisks away the bag. "You ready?"

"What?" I squeak.

"Come along," Tom says, dragging me along while wearing that annoyingly cheery smile.

Oh, how I loathe Tom Hiddleston. I'm likely the ONLY person on EARTH who LOATHES the man.

I try to dig my heels in. I'm not dressed to be photographed with Loki, let alone photographed for the hoards of people who will be posting every single damn picture tomorrow on Tumblr, Pinterst, Twitter, Facebook, and wherever the hell people post pictures these days. I've been hammered in the face! I know Scarlett did something to make it look better, but it was dark, and well, they have flashes!

Tom drags me onto the Comic-Con carpet, iron grip on my arm so I can't go anywhere. Chris and Scarlett amble behind me. Tom beams for the cameras, standing front and center.

I loathe Tom.

Oh, how I hate, loathe, detest, despise, and abominate Tom Muthafrackign Hiddleston, oh, let me count the ways.

"Smile, darling," Tom says out of the corner of his mouth.

People are shouting at him, asking him who the hell I am.

It's that moment I realize what he is doing and why he is doing it.

Oh, Tom Hiddleston, you fracking genius.

"This is Cricket Heidi of Chicago," Tom booms in his Loki voice, letting go of me to address the crowd of photographers. "And she is burdened with glorious purpose."

Am I smiling? Please, dear lord, let me be smiling.

A hideous orange bag appears out of nowhere in Tom's hands. He holds it up for the crowd before he places it in my hands and makes a Loki face for the cameras.

I stare at the purse in my hands.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and I know I must look like a loon.

A total loon with a freaking orange cherry on top.

Flashes. Shouting. I'm pushed off to the side so they can get shots of people who the wider world will care about. I continue walking till I'm away from the cameras and find myself in a dark, quiet hallway. I can hear the noise of the cameras and photographers, as well as the noise of the party I guess I'm supposed to go to.

What am I supposed to do with this purse?

I turn it over in my hands. It's one of the ones from Benedict & Door, not Cricket Heidi. (If I'm honest, B&D purses are A TON nicer and better quality.) Curious, I open it up and find it actually belongs to someone as there's stuff in here.

Jesus.

I look around for Tom, but fail to see him.

I just stole someone's purse!

* * *

It takes me an hour to track Tom down at this party I've managed to find myself at (don't ask me how I managed to get here. I'm still unsure. I hope to wake up in my bed at home and find this was all some sort of whacky Hollywood nightmare). I hand Tom the purse and inform him he better get it back to the person it belongs to or I'm telling Twitter he stole someone's purse.

"It belongs to my PA for the trip," Tom cheerily says. "She had it when I met her this afternoon. It was quite a frisson, of course."

"Of course."

I shove the handbag at him then I high tail it out of the celebrity filled room before I can make a bigger fool of myself.

* * *

The photos aren't that bad.

Somehow, even in my petrified (and hammered to the face) state, I smiled naturally and I look okay. (Clearly whatever Scarlett put on my face worked. It ought to have. I think it's still on there and I've washed my face. A few times.) Granted, I wish I was dressed a little fancier…like in my dress from WHBM. That was what I wore when I invaded the press junket for _Into Darkness_. At least I didn't go in slob mode like I did that afternoon. I did put some effort into my appearance that night.

I'm kind of channeling Zooey Dashenel minus the dark tights. I think it's the faux-vintage dress I chose to wear. It's got cameras on it, how ironic. Granted, I got it because it reminded me of that adorable dress Clara wore on that episode of _Doctor Who _where they are running around inside the TARDIS, but I couldn't find that one, so I got the camera dress. It's got a similar collar thing going for it. And sleeves.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up and see it's from Pamela.

_Cats out of the bag, I see_.

**_Yeah. Loki introduced me to the world. And gave me a purse._**

_I noticed. At least no one thinks you're dating Tom any longer. _

**_No, now you're just a mysterious girl who is in the Air Force and hasn't been seen with Tom since the spring._**

_Really?_

**_Sure. I don't know. What year is it? 1999? 92? 2006? Maybe it's actually 2014!_**

_I don't think I could handle everyone knowing. I've got enough trouble with all the wives in the IP class knowing. (It's July 21, 2013, BTW)_

**_And their friends. And their families. And anyone who reads their crap online._**

**_Holy crapola! I MISSED BEN'S BIRTHDAY._**

_FML._

**_Do you even know what that means?_**

**_I think we're having two very different conversations. Why are you FMLing? I forgot Ben's birthday!_**

**_FML. What am I going to do?_**

_Wish him a happy belated birthday?_

**_ORUIOEJLKSDJFLSDKJFLSjlkfjdskfosidjfaklsdjfaoisjdf al;sdjf_**

**_I don't even know where he is. Where is he?_**

_He's your friend, not mine._

**_That would upset him greatly, Pamela._**

_It would? I haven't spoken to him since I left London._

**_Didn't you send him a thank you note?_**

_Yes. Of course. He let me stay at his flat and fed me. _

**_HA!_**

_He didn't respond._

**_How do you respond to 'Thank you so much for letting Tom Hiddleston sleep on your couch, not telling me who he was, and not waking him up in the morning so he was there to whisk me off my feet?' _**

**_Hello?_**

**_Pamela?_**

**_FML. _**

* * *

I'm home.

I went to Comic-Con and I forgot Ben's birthday. He didn't seem to care. He's at a wedding or something. Or he's doing a wedding, as he made some joke he's available for gigs now. I'm too confused to deal with his odd sense of humor and actually make sense of it.

What the frack do you get Benedict Cumberbatch for his birthday?

Pamela went and got a nice watch for her birthday from Tom. Maybe I should ask Tom. He seems to be an awesome gift giver.

No. Not asking Tom. Who knows what'd I'd end up with?

Ben was kind of distracted when I called him in a panic the moment I realized I forgot his birthday— which was in the middle of the night or something for him, so maybe that was why he was kind of…weird.

Okay. I'll get something…I'll get him another denim shirt. He seems to like those. Or maybe I'll get him a DIFFERENT shirt. God, he and Tom like wear the same two shirts all the time. What gives?

OMG.

I seriously went to Comic-Con, something I NEVER in a million years figured I'd do. That kind of thing is so not my deal. Why did Ben think I would enjoy it?

No clue.

Did I enjoy it?

I don't know. I'm liking the fact when I checked the list of blogs I read this morning, I WAS MENTIONED on one.

Granted, I've been mentioned several times over since Mark Gatiss plucked me out of obscurity and tweeted about me, but this was a blog that deals with my chosen livelihood: purses.

It's a purse blog.

Cleverly called PurseBlog, but hey, it's the easiest thing to find when you want to find a blog about purses. I have been religiously reading it since 2007 when I stumbled on it trying to figure out how much a Birkin really costs. (I saw a re-run of the _Gilmore Girls _ep when Logan (how I hate him) gave Rory a Brikin bag.)

I've been reading the blog ever since and daydreaming of making an appearance. When I started my line back in Del Rio in the back bedroom, I had a pipe dream of it leading me to being the next Rebecca Minkoff. I never thought I'd blow up to the point I'd be considered on par with the likes of Stella McCartney or anything (or even Rebecca Minkoff if I'm honest. I'd settle for Trina Trunk. (I know she doesn't do handbags, but I love her bedding.))

I'm currently staring at a picture of ME and MY PURSE on PURSEBLOG.

I'm not sure how I got there.

I was sure that a blog like PurseBlog would ignore Comic-Con.

Why am I on their blog?

I can't even bring myself to read what they have to say about the horrid orange thing that is in my hands while I stand in front of the Comic-Con labeled backdrop with Loki of Asgard.

I click off the blog and stare open tab for my own website (yes, I like staring at my own website. It still shocks me it's mine and there are photos of Tom Hiddleston and Irene Adler all over it). I open a new tab and go to the other website I've dreamed of being on, even though if you end up on it, it's not exactly a good thing.

I scroll through the entires till I find the one of their round up on the fashions of Comic-Con.

I get to page six and see Tom alone and let out a breath I failed to know I was holding. It's a shot from the day he made his official Tom Hiddleston appearance. (So he's wearing his usual blue suit with a white shirt. When all else fails, Tom wears a white dress shirt and Ben wears a chambray one.)

There is no picture of me with my purse.

Oh, well. You live and learn (and then get Luvs).

I hit the link to see all the site's Comic-Con posts. I'm a sucker for looking at badly dressed celebs. (Hence why I read this website on a daily basis.) I find a post of a mashup of celebs fashion disasters, mostly ones the two writers didn't know where to put, but still wished to write about. I happily hit the link and go through the shots, laughing at the commentary. (Another reason I enjoy this website. It's maintained by two women who write YA books and are HILARIOUS. I might not like Britney Spears, but I love _their_ Britney Spears. If that makes sense.)

I get to the last slide and stop dead.

There I am.

Little old me: the unknown little purse maker in the camera print dress.

I stare at the image, which is a different one than used on PurseBlog. I'm holding the orange thing in my hands as I was just after Loki handed it to me, staring at it with a very similar expression Tom wore in that viral photo Pamela took. Tom doing full-on Loki, one hand on my shoulder while the other one is held up as he tells the crowd I'm burdened with a glorious something or other.

I trail my eyes over to read what they wrote.

_Everyone meet Cricket Heidi, designer of the fugliest handbag to ever explode all over the internet! Now, she can dress herself (she's adorbs!) but, everyone is mostly looking at the fugly thing in her hands. Or Loki. Oh, okay. They are looking at Loki. _

Okay. That's not so bad. I know that purse is FUGLY.

I'm more in shock they said I can dress myself.

I close the tab and stare at my website, ignoring the constant ping noise the open email client makes each time I get an order. It's pinging more since I got home from Comic-Con.

I'd like to hate both Tom and Ben for making all my dreams come true by sending me to a geek fest, but I think I'm in too much shock.


	17. Not a Bit Sophrosyne

**_Not a Bit Sophrosyne_**

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

_I am so over my hair._

**_You're not allowed to be over your hair. Have you seen your hair?_**

_Shockingly, I have. It's forever in my face because it's so bloody long._

**_Oh, cry me a river, Cumbernickel._**

_Cumbernickel? _

**_You're complaints make a nickel. _**

_My words are only worth a nickel? I don't even have a nickel. And I'm afraid I've yet to hear that one._

**_Well, I am me, Bennyduck._**

_Bennyduck? Come now, really?_

**_You're a duck. QUACK!_**

_Oh, my. Did you forget to sleep again, Door?_

**_I'm not a door. I'm a person. Unless I'm Basil. Then I'm a dog._**

I stare at my phone for a moment, the noises of the salon not reaching my ears, yet I cannot forget where I am due to the smell lingering in my nose. It's actually mostly coming from my head. Dye reeks. Occasionally, I dream that my whatever color it's naturally (some sort of shade of auburn I like to tell people) would just come in dark brown already and call it a day.

Then, I'd always be playing blonds, and be forever covered in peroxide. At least this stuff doesn't burn like peroxide burns.

_I am afraid, for you, dearest. _

**_Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark._**

**_That's what Basil just said. She'd like you to know._**

_Basil is talking to me? What does the French Spy have to say for herself._

**_She spied you with some Russian chick you've failed to clue me in to. _**

_She's just a friend._

**_Who you took to a wedding you officiated. Seriously. I know I'm gaga and completely bonkerific, but I'm you're business partner. Ya, gotta keep me in the get know._**

Business partner? That's what she's going with?

_The get know?_

**_Yada, yada, yada. My French Spy is telling me she's some actress who is in a play simply because she is Russia. And you're coaching her._**

_Well, yes. I've offered a few tips. And we spent most of the trip working through her lines. It's innocent._

Yes, Benedict, tell yourself that you colossal twat.

**_God, you're broing._**

What? Why is she telling me I'm broing? What the hell is broing in the first place?

**_Boring. Sorry. TYPO. Anyways, Basil is bored now and has left. What are you doing?_**

_Getting my hair dyed._

**_You're such a girl._**

_Yes, I know._

**_And you are a total bore. Here I thought I could get some juicy details on your luv life and all I got is what your dear fans wish she hear so they can keep on believen' they'll marry you._**

_Uh…._

"Excuse me, Mr Cumberbatch?"

I snap my head up to see the stylist, Charissa, who has been dealing with the mess on my head for long enough we're on a first name basis.

"Yes?" I ask, wondering why she just referred to me as _Mr Cumberbatch_.

"Ah, got your attention," she grins, motioning for me to lean back so she can rinse the dye out in the bowl behind me. "You're done. Time to rinse."

"Oh, yes, of course," I say, pocketing the phone.

She grins at me. "So, texting a friend?"

She says "friend" as if she means something else completely. I want to crawl into a hole. Or break cameras. Or just smash my own head.

Why am I such a moron?

Oh, don't answer that.

I'm a total twat.

"I'm sorry. I've seen the photos," she explains, snapping out a towel and rolling it to cushion my neck. She grins at me, letting me know she's happy for me without having to state it.

I lean back.

"Oh, don't be so glum," she goes on, slapping me playfully on the shoulder. "She's quite pretty, yes?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, your head is in the clouds," she giggles.

I wish my head was in the clouds.

What the hell am I doing? How old am I? Why did I think this made sense? Did I forget I'm Benedict Cumberbatch?

I believe I did.

My phone begins blaring and I close my eyes tight. I blindly reach into my pocket while Charissa rinses the dye out of my hair. She is so use to rudeness, she says nothing about the fact my phone just rang—loudly.

"So, how was the wedding?"

"Lovely," I say, remembering how romantic and peaceful the whole thing was (even if there were paps in the trees snapping pictures while I acted like an idiot).

(Okay, maybe I'm not an idiot. I am a perfectly healthy male. I didn't run off and become a monk. I've been dating steadily (if casually) for the past two years. This isn't anything new. Or devastating.)

(I should be a monk.)

(Why am I getting into a tizzy over this? I've done nothing wrong. No one is hurt or even upset.)

(Did I just think tizzy?)

(And clearly Door is upset.)

(This is why I should have become a lawyer or something else respectable. But, no, I became an actor and now I live my life under a microscope. I should have known this was going to happen when the wedding was taking place outdoors. And I know Door is addicted to Pintrest and follows my life through the various boards she follows for Sherlock or whatever she does on it. Do they even have boards on Pinterest? Or is she on Tumblr?)

(AND Door is still married. She's separated. And lives in Chicago.)

(I don't have time for this.)

(This being I'm not sure. Katia was clear she didn't want me to commit to a long term relationship. I believe she used the word fun.)

(I'm perfectly capable of having fun. I'm not a total boring sod.)

(I've been having "fun" with women for awhile now. This isn't new.)

(The only difference is Door.)

(Bloody hell.)

"Uh, Mr Cumberbatch?"

I jerk, staring up at Charissa, who is staring at me like she's worried for my sanity.

"Yes?"

"Let's go cut a little off that mop of yours to get you back to Sherlock," she says, eyeing me.

"Of course. Sorry. I'm jet lagged," I lie.

I am not jet lagged. I don't know what I am, even though in the past month I've pretty much flown around the world.

* * *

"I find it so interesting," Tom begins, throwing himself face first onto my couch, "that we both got pictured with female friends around the same time and now we're supposedly dating them."

He gives off a full belly Tom Hiddleston™ laugh, which is only tinged with the slightest of the bone numbing exhaustion the man must feel.

I do not know why he keeps flying back to London between his promotional gigs.

Then again, Tom Hiddleston is mental.

"So, I seem to have caught you out in London?"

"Sherlock begins filming in three days," I reply. "Shouldn't you be promoting something in America?"

Tom groans, hands flying over his face. "Don't remind me."

"Why'd you even come back after Comic-Con?"

"I didn't. I went to LA," Tom says. "Where I found out they want to shoot more scenes for _The Dark World_."

"Pardon?"

"Yes, they announced it and are going to do it. That is why I'm in London."

"Couldn't they shoot the scenes in a sound stage in LA?"

Tom chuckles, pulling his hands from his face to give me a look. "The sets are in storage here. We filmed most of it in London, well, and Iceland. I adore Iceland."

"Of course you do," I mutter, flipping through the scene we plan to shoot on the first day of filming.

It's an act two scene, so I feel as if I am missing something, as I've yet to get all of act one. (Yes, Steven Moffat is as evil as everyone thinks. If he weren't so bloody brilliant…)

"So, who exactly is Katia?"

"Pardon?"

Just ignore him and he'll fall asleep. He's utterly exhausted. He will fall asleep.

"Katia. The woman you were photographed whilst in Spain at that wedding," Tom clarifies, rolling over onto his side. He snakes his long arms around one of the pillows and snuggles into it.

"A friend."

"Who you kissed and not just a friendly pick on the cheek, darling," Tom said, sounding sleepier.

Yes, go to sleep. Fall asleep on my couch once more for another twelve hour nap.

"Come now, Benedict," Tom said, still groggy sounding but his eyes are sharp.

Blast.

"I've spent all day outside in this infernal heat in a suit and tie, give me something," Tom begs.

"Why are you so curious?"

"Might have further my understanding to the state of Door's mind," Tom explains, somehow further snuggling into the pillow. His eyes fall shut, finally letting me go from that penetrating blue gaze.

Damn his eyes.

"I doubt that had anything to do with her….state of mind at Comic-Con," I say, fulling believing it.

She didn't find out about Katia till after she'd gotten home.

I think.

She was obsessed with the fact she forgot my birthday for quite a bit after she remembered. I am not sure how she missed it. The entire world seemed to know I was getting another year older and the press was out in full force in Japan when I was gifted a _Star Trek _themed birthday cake. I know Door trolls the internet. Well, Pintrest. She seems rather addicted to whatever the hell that is. I think its different than Tumblr. At least Martin insists it is.

And Martin ought to know. He and Amanda keep up with that sort of thing. It seems exhausting. Don't know how they do it.

"Benedict," Tom whines, opening his eyes. "Give me a bone, old boy, please."

I glare at him.

"What? Did you not like my present?" he inquires innocently.

He gave me an orange purse. Not a Benedict & Door creation. I've no clue where he got it, but it the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It's striped. And the inside is purple silk— just like Sherlock's famous shirt.

Actually, it looked to be made out of one of Sherlock's shirts.

"I searched high and low for that thing," Tom goes on, grinning like an idiot. "Did you look inside?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

Oh, bloody hell. There was something in that thing?

"You didn't find it, did you?" Tom asks, yawning suddenly.

"Just go to sleep."

"I can't kip on your couch. I've got…" Tom trails off and doesn't bother to finish as he yawns again.

I shake my head, standing up and going to retrieve the ugly orange thing from where I stashed it after I'd gotten back to London and found it in my collection of mail that had gathered whilst I was away.

After digging through the thing for fifteen minutes I finally find what Tom hid in one of the inside pockets. I slowly pull out the piece of paper and stare at it. It's filled with Tom's handwriting and it takes me a moment to figure out what it says, as just like me, Tom's handwriting isn't the best. You'd think we'd have better handwriting, considering we're both public school boys, but alas, we lack properly nice handwriting unless we try hard.

It is easy for me to figure out what he means with all his Shakespeare and other quotes (why he must always write notes in quotes and riddles is beyond me). I put the paper in my pocket and head into the kitchen and search the cabinets (finding someone rearranged them on me again) till I finally come across a box wrapped in bright orange paper. When Tom got in here to hide it is beyond me. (Or why he must hide things in my flat for me to find…)

(Sodding bastard likely is the culprit behind my rearranged kitchen.)

I open the box and half expect to find an old book. (Most people give me old things. Then again, I like old things.) I furrow my brow at the sight of an antique camera. I turn it over in my hands a few times before I find the tag that tells me how old it is. It's from 1939 and it's a Voigtländer Vito.

This means very little to me, as I know nothing about many of the old things I own. Like the cappuccino maker that everyone seems to dislike but uses nonetheless. I know nothing about it other than I like the look of it. Mum knows the history behind it. She told me, but I wasn't listening.

"Where did you find this?" I call out, not expecting an answer.

"A shop," is the response. "I know you like it. I believe it does work— if you can find film for it. The shop keeper had no film, but was instant it still worked. I told her you likely were going to put it on a shelf and admire it."

Tom's right, of course.

I think I'll add to my collection of old stuff in the guest room.

Oh, god. I collect stuff. Old stuff. When did this happen? Oh, god, I'm turning into my mother only I have a wide variety of things and she's got owls.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

She was almost done. Only a three more flights and she was free.

Well, as free as she could be in the Air Force.

"Trying to use up all your leave before you start at Vance?"

Pamela stared at the commander she'd been told to have sign her request. (Which she'd already put through the computer system, but for some unknown reason they wanted an actual paper trail. Likely so they could loose it something physical or something else that made little to no sense.)

"No, sir."

"Oh, come on, Fitch," the guy said as if they spoke on a daily basis.

She'd hardly seen him during her stay at Randolph. Due to how he was sitting, she didn't even know his name, only that he was a colonel.

"This request is so vague it's like you've no idea where you're going," he went on.

She'd put down she was going to Enid for a week, then London for the rest of her time till she had to report to Vance. What was vague about that?

"Trying to keep the paparazzi off your tail?"

"Sir?"

"Oh, don't look so confused, Fitch," the man went on. "We all know your boyfriend."

Pamela doubted they all knew Tom. They knew of him, but no one she worked with knew Tom. Only two other Air Force officers had met Tom and neither was here any longer. One was in Del Rio dying a slow death by dirt and the other was likely skipping through the redwoods in Oregon (or whatever tree grew in Oregon).

"Well, since I like you, I'll sign then and send it up to Vance to let them know you're flying the coop," the man went on, filing the request somewhere on the mess that was his desk.

"Thank you, sir," Pamela responded.

He waved his hand at her to leave him. She turned and exited the office.

Two hours later, right before she was to leave for the afternoon, she got an email approving her request for leave.

She instantly texted Tom, who was currently in LA, so he was likely awake.

**_Oh, that's brilliant, CD! _**

Tom had a habit of shortening his various nicknames for her when he texted, which Pamela found a combination of adorable and odd. He referred to her as CD, DC, DL, LD, CL, and DD.

CD made her laugh, as she always thought of compact disks. DL and LD always reminded Pamela of 'low down' and 'down low'— the only reason she knew those was thanks to pilot training where the guys were always talking about keeping things on the DL, or LD. CL was the abbreviation for chlorine, DC was the capital of America, and DD always reminded Pamela of BB, which was what Basil Bea Dog was occasionally called.

_Will you actually be in London when I get there?_

**_Of course, DD._**

_If you say so, TH._

Pamela chuckled, as she could likely picture the look Tom would give her if he was here in person and she'd referred to him as_ Thomas Hiddleston_ after he'd called her _darling dove_.

**_Where is Enid?_**

_In OK._

**_I'm British._**

_I know._

There was a short pause in texting while Tom figured it out for himself.

**_O-o-o-o-o-o-k-la-a-a-a-a-homa-a-a-a-a-a-a! _**

_Correct. I knew you were smart._

**_OK. (Meaning the agreement 'okay,' not the state of O-o-o-o-o-o-klaaaaaaaaahomaaaaaaa.)_**

_Ah, thanks for clearing that up, TH._

**_*Sigh*_**

**_I'm almost finished up here, will you be around later tonight?_**

_Yeah. I'm about to leave work. Have to drop by HEB. Ran out of food again._

**_You are as bad as Ben at keeping yourself in foodstuffs, CL._**

_Yes, I realize this._

**_Buy some pudding. You've almost completed your training._**

_Shouldn't I wait till I'm done to celebrate with pudding?_

**_No. You need more pudding in your life._**

_Uh huh. Sure, TH._

**_You do!_**

* * *

"OLD STUFF!"

Pamela held the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment.

"What?" she asked as she flicked the speaker on.

"OLD STUFF!" Door shouted again.

"What about old stuff, Door?" Pamela asked, flicking the gas on to boil a pot of water.

"Ben likes old stuff!"

"Okay."

Door made a frustrated noise. "I didn't get him a birthday present!"

"Uh, Door, his birthday was like a month ago."

"NO! I still got at least nine days till it'll be a month late!" Door went on. "And I found something perfect! Only, I can't remember his address."

Pamela rolled her eyes and grabbed her phone. She flicked through it till she found Benedict's address, which she had saved to write him a thank you note for allowing her to stay when she'd found herself stranded in London. Yeah, it felt a bit weird to write Benedict a thank you note, but it was an ingrained habit. Her mother said that getting mail would never get old and everyone liked to see their trouble was appreciated.

Pamela was sure she was the only living soul who wrote thank you notes, but she did it out of habit and without thinking these days. (She'd even written on to Emma Hiddleston, much to her own embarrassment at having to ask Tom for Emma's address— as then she had to explain the thank you notes. Tom pouted he'd not gotten one.)

(He didn't know she's already mailed his— thanking him for taking her to the movie awards and the flight. Sending a thank you note out of the nicest stationary she could find didn't feel like enough of a thank you for a flight from London to LA, then to San Antonio. She still kind of wanted to pay him back, even though she knew he'd never let her.)

"You got a pen, Door?" Pamela asked.

"Yeah. Hit me," Door said.

Pamela read off the address.

"Thanks. Uh…yeah. Thanks," Door said.

"What did you get him?"

"What my mom called a piece of junk, but I thought it was awesome. It's a plaid suitcase."

Pamela blinked a few times. "You got him a suitcase?"

"It's old! And plaid! And it's not really a suitcase. It's like a kid's case from the fifties. Or a fake. My mom thought it was a knock off made to look old, but what does she know? She hired another freaking intern and Mitch suggested we open a freaking boutique."

"What?"

"His name is something weird," Door went on, not paying attention to Pamela. "I can't even remember his name, for crying out loud. And just like Bethany, he's got a stud in his nose. Is that a thing with teenagers these days? I thought it was all about the gage things in the ear and stretching your earlobes out?"

"I don't know. Mitch wants you to open an actual shop? Like in Chicago?"

"No. Lombard. I think it's sewercide."

Pamela closed her eyes. "Suicide, Door."

"NO! I meant _sewer_-cide! Death by stink!"

Pamela closed her eyes, reopening when she heard the pan lid rattle as the water boiled. She reached over, took it off, and added the pasta.

"LOMBARD! Downtown LOMBARD! They've been trying to bring it back since I was a kid and it never got off the ground," Door explained. "Things keep showing up, people get excited, then the places go under because no one goes to downtown Lombard to shop."

"If Thomas tells them, they will," Pamela absently said, adding a little salt to the water.

"You did not just say that."

"Huh?"

"Tom doesn't have the power to save downtown Lombard," Door insisted. "Plus, I don't want to work in downtown Lombard!"

"Uh, okay."

"BUT, we're too big for the basement. How is this my life?! Seriously?" Door asked. "This is not my life. I'm not outgrowing the basement in a few months. This is INSANE."

Pamela didn't respond as she opened the tomato sauce jar and dumped it into a sauce pan to heat up. Door ranted for a few minutes before running out of steam.

"This is mental. Business does not work this way," she insisted after a moment of silence. "I mean, Dan's family didn't turn a profit till they'd been at it for almost five years or something! And that woman who opened her own clothes shop, well, they're just beginning to expand and hire other people to work there!"

Pamela bit her lip, not wanting to say the obvious, but feeling she ought to.

"They didn't have Thomas and Benedict," Pamela said. "You opened a business with a very popular actor and another one does promotion for you all the time. They both want to see you succeed, and you are."

Door was silent. "So…after they're no longer popular media darlings, I'm screwed?"

"No. You've got a good product. Use your popularity to establish a loyal following," Pamela encouraged, hoping whatever she was saying made sense. "That's how fashion labels get business? Customer loyalty, right?"

"Yeah."

"You've got a good start due to what Benedict and Thomas are doing for you, use it and prove you've got a good product."

"I guess I do," Door said quietly. "I mean…they're better than what you can get at Target."

Pamela wasn't sure what to make of that, but then again, she knew next to nothing about handbags.

"I don't want to open a shop in the suburbs, though. I'd get more foot traffic in a major city," Door said. "But I can't afford a shop in Chicago."

"Well, I don't know," Pamela offered. "Ask Mitch?"

Door made a noise. "He's dead set on Lombard. I suggested Naperville, but he didn't like that. He really wants to bring Lombard back. I don't even know what's there anymore."

"Why don't you go down there and see?"

"Fine. Bye."

"I didn't mean right now," Pamela said, even though she knew Door had hung up on her.

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Downtown Lombard.

The website (yes, there's a website for downtown Lombard, or Town Centre (spelled British too)) makes it seem like it's a happening place. I haven't been here in years. My dad assured me that Lombard's downtown was a hoppin' place and is all for me opening up a shop here. (He works down here, evidently. And yeah, I did notice he no longer seemed to take the train and came home for lunch, but I didn't really think he worked in Lombard now.)

"So, nice, huh? Better than if he suggested Villa Park," Dad says.

My dad had to drive me here, as Davy took the 4Runner, my mom took her own car to do something, and my dad won't let me drive his stupid old man car. (Not that I want to drive it. It's like driving a tank and I drive a 4Runner. That's saying something.)

"I don't know, Dad," I moan, walking down Not Main Street.

Main Street runs through downtown Lombard, but it's not the main drag of the joint. Go figure?

"I think you ought to do it. We could carpool to work," he points out. "And see, this building's for rent! And it's old."

"It's a bank. Or was a bank."

"Charming."

"Dad."

"Door."

I sigh, turning and walking further up the street. "I like that one better."

My dad follows my finger across the street. I wait for the light and cross to the empty store front. "See, you can see the purses then. The bank— no front windows."

A crestfallen expression appears on Dad's face— he must have had his heart set on renting out the bank.

"Do you really want to be next to a restaurant? Might smell."

I sigh. "Well, there's an open store next to the liquor store."

He gives me a look that speaks loudly of his dislike of this idea.

"Actually, there's two. The one right next to the liquor store, then the one next to it that used to be a food place or something."

"You'd have to remodel and get rid of the kitchen."

"Yeah, this is why I don't want to do this," I grumble as my cell phone rings.

I know who it is before I answer.

"He'll just call me," my dad quietly says, putting his hands into his pockets and heading up the street in the direction of the two stores we passed earlier.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and sure enough, it's Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Just finished filming," says the tired, deep, stone rattling voice.

Damn him.

This is why I haven't spoken to him since….never mind.

"Well, you'll be happy to know I'm looking at shops. Bona Pizza's gone. I could take their store, they've got a huge window!"

I half tell this to Benedict Cumberbatch, half to my retreating father's back.

It is a VERY sore point to my father that Bona Pizza isn't where it ought to be. (Or anywhere. I'm not honestly sure if they went out of business or moved. He won't tell me and I'm afraid to ask because he's quite sentimental about places that connect to my childhood and Bona Pizza does so in a major way.)

(It was where we got pizza when we lived in Lombard. My dad adored the owners, who had a kid my age or something.)

"Should that mean something to me?" Benedict Cumberbatch inquires.

"No."

I don't further explain. We're silent and my dad reaches the two vacate store fronts that are about a block away from where I'm standing. He points across the street, then crosses.

"This is nuts," I mutter, looking both ways before I start across the street to meet him.

"What is nuts? Opening a store after just starting out?"

"Yeah."

"Or the fact you haven't spoken to me in almost two weeks?"

"What do you mean?"

It's been longer. During his promotional tour of Asia, I didn't talk to him at all. Then he went to Spain with a tall, leggy, Russian blonde.

(The wedding was on his master schedule he sent me when I'd asked all those months ago, but it didn't list off he'd go with a date. Who is blonde. And tall. And a former model. And now is trying to be an actress. Or something.)

(I am not jealous.)

"I like this one," my dad announces. "How's Ben?"

"Benedict-like."

Dad frowns.

My father has spoken to Benedict often (and Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, but I don't hold that against him) since Benedict landed back in the UK. (Clearly, these British men like my dad or something, as I cannot imagine why TOM HIDDLESTON keeps calling MY DAD other than the fact he likes him. Go figure.) I haven't answered my phone, so Benedict's taken to calling Dad. I've no clue what they talk about as my dad always makes this strange noise when Benedict calls, so I hide.

Yes, I am fifteen again. Leave me alone.

"Door," Benedict says in a tone that WILL NOT MAKE ME DO WHAT HE WANTS.

Oops.

"Did you just hang up on him?" Dad asks, looking shocked.

"No," I lie, shoving the phone in my pocket after muting it. "This is mental. I cannot open a shop."

"Well, it won't hurt to look," Dad says. "Plus, you need more room for production. And it'd be right professional—EEK."

Damn Benedict Cumberbatch.

Before my dad can get his own iPhone out and answer, I run away.

Well, I walk very quickly away. Then dart down a side street and wind up at the train station. I don't cross the tracks to get to the other side, because that's where the park is that I had that eureka moment that left me in this mess to begin with.

Damn park.

Damn dog.

Damn ice cream.

I HATE LOMBARD.

I sit down on a bench and pout.

It's my fault.

No, it's Basil's fault, but it's my fault for not saying anything when he was here and we had our moment. No, I just let it breeze on by and then he went off traveling around the world and hasn't sat down long enough to catch his breath since.

I'm a loser.

I push myself to stand, cross the tracks and head back down to the street. I head toward Main Street then hook a left and head towards where Dad parked his boat of a car. I'm going back home, I'm not opening a store in Lombard, and I am not going to speak to Benedict Cumberbatch until I am no longer jealous of his girlfriend. (Or whatever she is. I did see a story he's "dating" and not "seriously"— whatever that means. Clearly, I'm a relic of the Victorian era or something.)

Why am I jealous?

Oh, I don't know. Because I'm a loser who thought I was his best friend or something delusional.

Actually, I thought he liked me. Just a wee bit.

I think I dreamed it up, though.

I'm not blonde, leggy, or thin. I'm not a former model, actress, or anything particularly amazing. I'm just Door. I've got out of control, frizzy red hair, more freckles than I know what to do with when I send any time in the sun, and I'm average weight, height, wear average size clothes and shoes. I'm totally average. So much so, I'm no longer going to use fancy words to describe anything. Just boring, old, average words.

"Door?"

"No."

"He's just worried."

"Yeah, well, tell him we're not going to open a store, so he and his checkbook are fine."

That's a bit harsh.

I stomp passed Dad and head for the car that's parked in the empty parking lot behind the building where my dad works.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

She is totally pissed at me.

I bang my head with my phone.

It's almost two in the morning.

I ought to be asleep.

I cannot sleep.

I hit my head with my phone again, then chuck the thing across the hotel room. Then I scream.

I shouldn't have done that.

There's a knock on my door.

Bugger.

I peek through the peep hole to see Mark standing at the door, half asleep.

"Ben, open up."

I open the door.

He blinks at me slowly before taking in my appearance.

"What is going on?"

"I messed up."

"Fix it."

"Tried."

"Have you now?"

"I don't know," I admit, hiding my face in my hands.

Mark brushes passed me into the room, shutting the door, and steering me to sit on the bed.

"Matters of the heart?"

I give him a look.

"I take it Dorothea doesn't handle the images of you with other women as well as Pamela Fitch seems to, hmmm?"

"Pamela would have every right to be pissed off at Tom," I remind him. "And Tom's not in the same situation as myself."

"Oh?"

"There's no photos of Tom kissing Jane," I grumble. "Tom is also not dating Jane."

"You're dating the Russian girl?"

"What is dating?" I ask, trying to sound funny, wind up sounding like an asshole.

I am one, so it works.

"Benedict, did it ever occur to you that Dorothea is blind to your affections?"

I look up to find Mark studying his nails.

"She is quite dense," Mark offers. "I know she is still married." I make a noise. "Sorry, separated. I know she's separated from her husband, which is why you still believe her to be off limits, but would it hurt if you just flat out told her how you feel about her?"

My stomach knots itself into a million knots at the thought of stating it, as I've not even stated it to myself.

"Or are you both complete dunderheads?" Mark drawls, looking up at me.

"Dunderhead," I agree, raising my hand.

"Clearly. I do not know what is going on in your personal life, but you're usually quite tidy and don't cause too much ruckus. You need to figure yourself out before you end up hurting two women."

"One."

"Pardon?"

"Katia doesn't want anything serious," I mutter. "Most don't."

"Oh, Ben," Mark sighs, not calling me by my full name for the first time since he'd arrived. "Why ever did you think that would suit you?"

I frown.

Mark doesn't bother to explain, but requests I cease throwing things and screaming.

"I quite like this hotel," Mark says as he opens the door. "And we'll be back somewhere down the road."

I nod.

Mark quietly shuts the door, leaving me alone.

I try to call Door, but she still doesn't answer. I'd call her father again, but I'm afraid I'll be tottering on being an annoyance.

Tomorrow. I'll deal with this tomorrow.

* * *

I've spoken with Katia. She understood. It was too…out of a horrible romantic comedy I almost started laughing.

"If that iz vere your heart iz, then follow it," she informed me, looking at me like I was mental for fooling around with her.

I am. I'm thirty-seven years old. What am I doing acting like a uni student? (With a woman who is roughly the age of a uni student. Or around. She's twenty-five.)

(Oh, god, she's like ten years younger than me.)

(Shut up, Benedict.)

I didn't even behave this way when I was a uni student. I like stable things. I'm a relationship person. Why did I even entertain the idea I was a "dating" person? Oh, I know why— because I don't actually have time for a relationship, yada, yada, yada.

I'm a moron.

Tom doesn't have time for a relationship yet seems to be able to carry one on just fine. And he's sickeningly happy. More so than usual.

I have not dealt with Door, as she's still not answering her phone.

More than likely due to pictures of me with another woman. Not that I DID anything, we were just OUT. And I am NOT dating her in any capacity. Nor have I ever dated her. We're friends. Have been for years.

Though, Door can't be too mad at me. She sent me a birthday present.

It's a tartan suitcase that's too small to be practical. It does go nicely with the camera Tom gave me, though. It's almost as if they plotted together, though I know for a fact they did not.

We start filming in London tomorrow morning. Then we'll be done with series three. I can't wrap my head around the fact it'll be done. I know I've been working on series three since March, but it feel so much longer.

March.

I've only known Door since January.

I've only known her for seven months.

Bloody hell.


End file.
